Christmas Interlude
by KCS
Summary: Technically an AU spin-off of A Messy Business and Never Too Late, mainly because timelines don't work to give tiny!John a first Christmas with Sherlock. Pretend AMB isn't set in September but rather December, and this is the result. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Interlude (1-13/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: A Messy Business/Never Too Late  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: whatever 13x221 is. :P  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> New Scotland Yard's Christmas party, Mycroft being a general creeper, Anthea dancing with tiny!John  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October and I have no intention of letting my kidfic turn into another _Insontis _epic (which I am also in the process of updating, for those of you who are also Trek fans). Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:**I just churned out fifteen 221bs in the...two hours since I finally got my new laptop set up (if you're not keeping up on my personal drama, my hard drive was wiped this week by a virus which is why I've disappeared for four days), so there quite possibly are typos and it may not even make sense; be kind, plz? *puppy eyes*

* * *

><p>Lestrade had been quite adamant. "Sally will kill me if I don't make you bring the kid along," he'd been forced to say, because no one messed with Donovan unless he was missing more than half his brain cells. "She's completely in love with him."<p>

"And that, Inspector, is far more disturbing than the fact that he is over three months late in reverting to his proper age," Sherlock had responded wearily. The novelty of caring for a little boy had worn off a few weeks before, and to be honest Lestrade was surprised at the incredibly unending patience Sherlock still possessed toward his diminutive flatmate. Usually the man had the attention span of a bumblebee, but he had been nothing short of amazing as a caretaker for tiny John Watson.

But now, five months after the accident, Lestrade'd gotten out of a half-sloshed Sherlock at pub night (Mycroft had been child-minding, which was more frightening than the last riot scare had been) that Sherlock was more than ready to have his friend return to his proper age.

John, bless his little heart, had seemed to sense Sherlock's weariness of late, and had during this discussion moved from darting boisterously about the room with a toy laser gun, to retreating into the nearest corner, armed with a stack of picture books.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had been careful to not indicate how he'd not anticipated caring for a little one for so long, but even so Lestrade made certain to ask John every time if he wanted to come over and stay for a while. John unfailingly refused, although he did seem to love it when one of them would give poor Sherlock's brain a rest once a week, taking John to the zoo or something.<p>

Now, he'd been going to suggest shipping John off to Mycroft's, since they technically didn't allow children to the NSY's holiday gathering due to alcohol consumption, but Donovan had insisted they let Sherlock bring him - because John had promised earlier in the year that he'd come and it wasn't his fault that he was only five, now was it?

When Anderson pointed out the shaky ground that logic was teetering on, he tucked tail and ran at Donovan's death-glare. "Besides," Sally added sensibly, "who would the Freak get to mind him? The landlady's down with a cold, and that creeper of a brother of his is apparently coming tonight as well, some PR move with Whitehall."

"He's only five years old!" he'd exclaimed. "Speaking of PR, how will that go over if the wrong people find out?"

"Sherlock will just have to say he couldn't find a baby-sitter."

* * *

><p>And so it was, that Lestrade found himself wishing he'd popped a few paracetamol before attending this ChristmasSolstice/Politically-correct-Winter-Holiday party, especially because Sherlock seemed to be doing his best to alienate all and sundry. From insulting the Minister of Defense's wife to siccing Mycroft on a shady PC who currently looked about to wet himself, Lestrade had spent the last ninety minutes putting out fires and hadn't even had a drink yet. He most definitely did _not_ get paid enough.

He was debating the logistics of diving under the refreshment table and crawling to the stairs, when Sherlock materialized out of nowhere, two flutes of champagne in his hands.

"You are not giving that to John, I don't care how old he used to be, Sherlock!"

Grey eyes rolled toward the decorated ceiling. "I am not so foolish, Lestrade. You looked like you needed one, after dealing with the Super's undersecretary."

Shocked into silence by the uncharacteristic gesture, he drained the flute in one swallow.

Sherlock's eyebrows climbed. "Another?"

"No, thanks though," he sighed, placing the glass on the table. Then he froze. "What did you do with the kid?"

"John?"

"No, your secret love-child by a previous marriage - of course John!" he all but shouted at the insufferably unperturbed detective. "Don't tell me you let him loose in this bedlam?"

* * *

><p>"Do you suppose I would let him anywhere near an unsupervised Anderson and whatever atrocity he calls <em>that<em>?" Sherlock demanded indignantly, waving a disgusted hand toward the dance floor.

Lestrade relaxed. Sherlock was more protective than a mother bear; therefore John was in no danger.

"Where is he, then?" he asked cautiously, peering about the room to locate the child before he did heaven only knows what, no doubt at Sherlock's direction.

He was surprised to see a small smile quirk at Sherlock's lips as he indicated the dance floor. Lestrade craned to see and then broke out with a laugh of his own.

Mycroft Holmes's (extremely gorgeous) PA had apparently been convinced by the inexorable power of puppy-eyes to put away her mobile for a few minutes, and was currently coaxing a beaming five-year-old through a basic waltz step.

"Starting him a bit early, are we?" he observed, grinning.

Sherlock favored him with a spectacular eyeroll. "It is hardly my fault that my brother's staff are so susceptible. Or that John is most adept at procuring what he wants by any means possible."

"Well thank heaven you're not so 'susceptible,' then," Lestrade observed innocently, his eyes on John's tiny designer jumper and the collector's edition Paddington Bear which was currently tucked safely behind Mycroft's legs along with a discarded Blackberry.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was momentarily distracted by preventing Anderson from borderline harassing Sergeant Donovan, who was doing her best to chat up the kid from ballistics who'd seemingly not been scared off by her despite all efforts, and by the time he'd made his way through the human morass back to check on Sherlock (he was the typical worried father figure for all these idiots, apparently) John and whatever-her-name was had gone their separate ways. Sherlock was standing entirely too close to the punch bowl with a five-year-old holding his hand, John looking curiously on tiptoe at the chocolate fountain which occupied the other end of the table.<p>

So far, so good; Sherlock was apparently having a civil conversation with Dimmock (Christmas miracles), John was behaving himself, standing quietly beside his caretaker (further miracles), and no one had yet told a horrible politician joke (even further miracles).

He should have known it wouldn't last.

In the poor kid's defense, this was no place for him to be entertained, and Sherlock even five months later still had not quite mastered the art of foreseeing when John was reaching his limits. Even as an adult, Sherlock had often simply not realised how exhaustive their lifestyle was, and though the man tried hard it just didn't always happen now that John was just a little boy.

* * *

><p>John began to fidget, tugging on Sherlock's hand. Sherlock ignored him, discussing some cold case with Dimmock, and Lestrade saw a pout forming. It was, after all, past a little one's bedtime, and John looked only minutes away from a tantrum.<p>

John murmured to himself, tugging harder on Sherlock's hand. "_Sherlock_," he said, after being ignored for the third time.

"I am talking, John; wait a moment," Sherlock answered, glancing down for long enough to ascertain that the child was neither ill nor needed the toilet.

"Now!" John said, louder, pushing against the detective's legs.

As Sherlock staggered slightly, Dimmock hid a grin and Lestrade relaxed.

"John, behave yourself," Sherlock said severely. John quailed, hiding behind his legs. "There is no need for histrionics; keep still for ten minutes longer and I believe we can both leave then, eh?"

John peeked around his legs hopefully. "Promise?"

"I promise," Sherlock said, smiling. "Now, do you remember what I told you about how to properly spy on people?"

Lestrade resisted the urge to bang his head against the nearest solid object.

"Yessss," the child said, frowning.

"Well I want you to sneak up on Sergeant Donovan and see if you can surprise her, all right?"

"Under the miss-ssel-toe?" Blue eyes blinked up innocently at the two men, and Dimmock choked into his brandy.

* * *

><p>Sherlock gave his tiny flatmate a feral grin. "If you can, then quite so, John."<p>

"Okay!"

Lestrade smiled as the little one toddled off toward Sally and her not-really-boyfriend-yet. He watched with some interest as Mycroft Holmes's eyes flickered at regular eight-second intervals to keep the child in sight, and was relieved to see most of the Yard was watching with nothing more than indulgent fondness. A few of the politicians looked askance at the appearance of a child, but weirdly enough they all seemed to be taking their cues from Mycroft Holmes - and since the man was completely unruffled, none dared be otherwise.

Someday he would coax out of Sherlock who exactly this bizarre sibling of his really was.

He lost sight of John momentarily as the child slipped through a gap in the crowd and then began creeping along in the shadows, darting from one to the next in fine proper spy fashion (he was far too young to be watching Bond, thank you, and Sherlock was going to get a fine dressing-down for showing him those movies when Lestrade remembered to do it).

All would have been well, had the child not suddenly tripped over an extension cord (blasted fairy lights were a fire hazard anyhow!) and gone flying into one of the room's massive support beams.

* * *

><p>Horrified, Lestrade was already running when John's head struck plaster with a thud that made everyone within fifteen feet gape. He reached the little one's side in seconds, skidding to an ungainly halt (confounded dress shoes!), and carefully bent over the crumpled form.<p>

To his relief, John's eyes were open, though his little face was screwed up in those five seconds of utter shock which always precedes the arrival of pain in a child's body. He scooped John up just as the first whimper escaped, and in the next moment had two little arms flung about his neck and an earful of wailing toddler.

"Hey, hey, shhhhh," he soothed, moving swiftly through the crowded room (honestly, you'd think the idiots had never seen a crying kid before, what with all the disgusted looks he was getting).

"Hurts, 'Stwayde," John sobbed.

Sherlock was going to have kittens, he thought, hearing the returning speech impediment. A moment later, seeing murder gleaming out of the man in question's eyes, he wished fervently that he'd accepted Gregson's trade for office-minding duty.

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded, as if Lestrade were solely responsible.

"Shhh," he soothed, as John began crying anew. "Here now, go see Sherlock, eh?"

Lestrade was shocked, when John shook his head vehemently and clung to him instead, hiding his face from them both.

* * *

><p>"John?" Sherlock's voice was gentle, but Lestrade heard the painful surprise - hurt, almost - in it.<p>

The child refused to look at them, only steadily cried into Lestrade's shirt. Someone glided past them - Dimmock, he registered in the back of his mind - murmuring "I'll get some ice," and he didn't know what to do other than cuddle the little one close, despite the confusion emanating from Sherlock.

"Why don't you want to go see Sherlock then, John?" he asked gently, bending over the mop of tear-soaked curls.

"Mad," was the muffled answer, and he stared at Sherlock over John's head. Sherlock shrugged, his eyes betraying sheer helplessness.

"Mad? You think he's mad at you?" he asked softly, threading one hand through the child's hair to ascertain the damage. He felt a rising bump on the top of the child's head - but no blood, and even the bump was not swelling near as much as he'd seen before.

"Yes," John sniffled, scrubbing at his left eye.

"Wh-"

Lestrade stomped on Sherlock's foot. Giving an indignant look, the consultant subsided grudgingly and Lestrade continued hesitantly, "Why do you think Sherlock is mad at you?"

"Tol' me to be quiet," was the miserable whisper. "Not s'posed to cause twouble! I sorry!"

"Okay, it's okay," he murmured, patting the child's back.

* * *

><p>The tension leeched instantly from him, because for one horrible second he had worried that Sherlock's methods of discipline were instilling fear in the child. Obviously, this was not the case. He'd seen cases of verbal child abuse before, and no victim ever worshiped the ground the abuser walked on like John adored Sherlock. Most likely, the uncannily perceptive child had picked up on Sherlock's recent weariness with the entire situation and had interpreted it as a lessening of affection rather than the simple exhaustion it was.<p>

Smiling fondly into the little one's bowed head, he met Sherlock's incredulous look and mouthed _I have no idea_ with a shrug of his own. However, this was as good a time as any to check up on things, and so he felt he could be forgiven his next (necessary, as a policeman) question. "Does Sherlock get mad at you very often, John?"

"What the -"

"Shut it, Sherlock," he snapped warningly.

"Lestrade, what are you implying?" the amateur hissed furiously, worrying at his thin lips.

"John?" he asked. John hid his face, still crying quietly. "Does Sherlock get angry with you?"

"Nooo," was the murmur he finally received, and he exhaled slowly.

"Then why do you think he's mad at you now, kiddo?"

"Dunno." John sniffed, his small chin digging into Lestrade's collar-bone.

* * *

><p>"John," Sherlock said quietly. One blue eye peeked out warily, watching him with an unfamiliar uncertainty. "Whatever have I said to make you think such a thing?"<p>

"Ice!" Dimmock called cheerfully, waving a cloth wrap, and wondered why he received triplicate glares of Doom.

Sherlock snatched it without a word, which didn't appear to faze Dimmock. "Come here, John," he said gently, and after a moment's hesitation John held out his arms for transfer. Sherlock knelt on the floor, heedless of his tuxedo, and propped the little one on his knee, carefully applying the ice-pack to the child's head.

"Ow!" John shrieked upon contact. "No!"

"_Yes_," Sherlock admonished sternly, ignoring the amused looks he was getting from about half the occupants of the room (Lestrade was trying not to be embarrassed, because they really were smack in the middle of things). "It will make it feel better, John."

"No want," the little one sobbed, tugging at the hand which held the ice firmly against the contusion.

"Shhh, I know." Lestrade caught the bent of his pointed look and hastily retrieved the forgotten stuffed bear, which Sherlock presented to his small flatmate. "Hold tight to him until this melts, all right?"

"Wight," was whimpered into the soft fur. John ceased tugging on Sherlock's hand, moving instead to clutch at his beloved bear.

* * *

><p>For a moment silence reigned, as those around them began moving back to their merrymaking, ignoring their odd little group in true characteristic British fashion. Lestrade was relieved that no well-meaning but pompous politician started a lecture on safety measures and policies regarding children at such gatherings.<p>

"Now, John," Sherlock said quietly, as he checked the melting ice. "Why would you think I would be angry with you for 'causing trouble,' when you did not intend to?"

"You tired of me," John sniffled, picking aimlessly at a loose bit of fuzz on the bear's head.

"What? Never!"

"Sure?" The child's eyes were still filled with tears - whether from pain or from this entirely new and unexpected insecurity, Sherlock had no idea. Regardless, either possibility was equally abhorrent.

He stood, holding the child at eye level. "John, I will never, ever get tired of you," he said solemnly. "Never have, never could, and never will."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Pinkie pwomise?"

"Ah..." What on earth was a pinkie promise? He telegraphed a frantic SOS to Lestrade, who only shrugged helplessly at him. It was Dimmock who hastily demonstrated the apparently necessary motions with his opposing little fingers.

"Pinkie promise," he agreed doubtfully, attempting the same basic motions as a tiny finger extended to meet his.

Children's traditions these days were increasingly bizarre.

* * *

><p>John's smile brightened the room, but it was a police camera that blinded them.<p>

"Anderson, so help me God I will kill you one day and _no one_ will be able to identify your body," Sherlock snarled.

"Get lost, Anderson," Lestrade sighed, rubbing his temples. "What d'you need those pictures for, anyway?"

"I'm making a _calendar_!" the man called over his shoulder, grinning at Sherlock's outrage.

Dimmock shook his head. "For the love of heaven..."

"I'd buy one," Lestrade said thoughtfully.

Sherlock sounded like a spluttering radiator, much to John's amusement. The child was giggling into the consultant's jacket, head pain apparently forgotten.

All three of them jumped (and John squeaked) when Mycroft Holmes suddenly materialized beside them.

"Is he all right?" he asked without preamble.

"Ah...who, exactly, are you, then?" Dimmock inquired warily.

"My brother, Mycroft Holmes," Sherlock sighed, waving his free hand in his sibling's direction.

Dimmock gaped, horrified. "There's _two_ of them?"

"Myke!"

"And of course the kid loves him," Lestrade muttered, grinning.

"Are you quite all right, John?"

"Okay." The child frowned as he rubbed his head. "Where's Anfea?"

"Who?" Lestrade asked.

"My personal assistant, Detective Inspector," the elder Holmes explained. "She is going to fetch the car to take you both home, Sherlock."

"I would prefer a cab," Sherlock growled.

"Not me!" John piped up, beaming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Interlude (14-21/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: whatever 8x221 is. :P  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Sherlock gets a clue, John tries to eat an entire plate of cookies, and there is much cuddling  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October and I have no intention of letting my kidfic turn into another _Insontis _epic (which I am also in the process of updating, for those of you who are also Trek fans). Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:** Several lovely people have done fanart for this story, and I want to plug them as well because they certainly deserve recognition for giving me the inspiration to continue despite a very busy holiday season. See all the illustrations via the plug post in my LiveJournal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please. 

* * *

><p>John was apparently taking full advantage of a captive audience and was nattering away a kilometre a minute to anyone who would listen. Anthea smiled indulgently at the little one, wedged in between her and Sherlock in the back seat of the Mercedes, and nodded or hmm-ed at the appropriate intervals. Sherlock stared out at the fairy-lights of nighttime London, and was broodily silent for the duration.<p>

It was not until they had bundled an increasingly sleepy John up the stairs and into a hot bath per Mrs. Hudson's supervision, that he finally spoke, and only to brusquely thank his brother's PA for seeing them safely home.

Anthea spared him a glance and a smile, and vanished with appropriate mysterious silence. Ten seconds later his mobile vibrated with a message.

Stop internalizing. Make  
>cocoa and watch an hour<br>of _K-9_, and all will be  
>restored.<p>

A

He scowled at the presumption of the infernal woman; she was in every way a match for his brother. He would see Anderson promoted to Chief Inspector before he would take advice from her, thank you.

His phone buzzed again.

Now would be ideal.  
>Children's doubts only<br>increase with lapse of  
>time.<p>

He scurried into the lounge to find the telly remote, and tried to remember where he had hidden the tin of gingerbread biscuits.

* * *

><p>Minutes later, John sat on the couch in a blanket-cocoon, damp hair sticking up over the top of the foremost. He blinked sleepily as Sherlock shuffled in, carrying a tray upon which was a pot of cocoa and an assortment of colourful gingerbread-men.<p>

John looked askance at the proffered biscuit.

"Oh, please. Mrs. Hudson made them," Sherlock muttered, shoving a paper serviette into the child's hand. One thing they had both learnt during this interval was that while Sherlock could cook quite well when he put his mind to it, he rarely _did_ put his mind to it. The inevitable result was a dismayed, hungry child, and a surfeit of unhealthy takeaway.

John looked much relieved, and promptly devoured the head off the biscuit. Sherlock briefly marveled; he had always gone for dismemberment rather than decapitation.

"Be careful, it's still quite hot," he said, carefully filling a cup halfway with cocoa. John looked much insulted. "You may have more when you've finished," he chuckled, closing the small fingers around the mug, "but we don't want to spill it, eh?"

John shook his head, bright eyes following Sherlock's movements over the rim of the mug. "You too?" he asked suddenly, pointing to the tray.

"I too what?"

"Eat!" the child said sternly, though the effect was somewhat garbled 'round a huge bite.

* * *

><p>"Very well," he muttered, and promptly shoved a gingerbread-man into his mouth, while he fished in the couch cushions for the telly remote. He finally yanked out the remote and flopped down beside his small companion, biting the biscuit's torso off at the waist and chewing thoughtfully upon it. Beside him, John snatched another and shoved the entire thing into his mouth.<p>

Pausing mid-channel surf, Sherlock looked down at him, somewhat aghast. "That is not polite, John."

The child stuck his tongue (and its contents) out at him.

"Neither is that."

John rolled his eyes and huddled down into the blankets, still chewing.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock located a program that looked sufficiently non-violent and abnormally colourful, and leaned back with a yawn. These ridiculous social functions always were so exhausting, by simple virtue of the fact that the mental energy expended to endure the idiocy of the masses was more draining than the most abstruse of cryptic cases.

And to make matters worse, he had caused distress to a child - the worst possible of crimes, harming the innocent - and would need to spend the remainder of this holiday season trying to repair the damage.

He cracked an eye open thirty minutes later, to find a stealthy five-year-old trying his best to consume the entire rest of the biscuit-tray.

* * *

><p>"<em>John<em>."

The child yelped and dropped the biscuit-plate, sending a deluge of gingerbread-men scattering.

While in other circumstances the guilty look would be comical, in these it was worrisome - John was reverting to that initial fear he had once held toward authority figures. Sherlock thought this abnormal child-fear of corrective anger had passed, and it broke his heart (by now it was futile to deny its existence) to think that his own weariness had resurrected that.

"Are you hungry, John?" he asked, frowning, because he had thought Lestrade had fixed the child a plate at the party.

John shook his head, hiding in the blankets until only his eyes showed.

"Then you must not eat too many sweets, or you will get a stomach-ache," he explained calmly, shoveling the biscuits back onto the plate and moving the tray out of kicking range.

"Not mad?" John asked in a small voice.

"Why would I be?"

"Sneaky," was the muffled answer.

This time he did laugh, and before the child could react he had snatched him up, tickling him through blanket-protection. John giggled, squirming, and curled up against him, one hand grasping his dressing-gown. "Yes, you were sneaky," he replied proudly. "That is not necessarily a Bad Thing, John."

"No?"

"No." Smiling, he tucked an errant little foot back under the blanket.

* * *

><p>"John, I am...sorry I have not paid proper attention to you of late," he said at last, knowing the matter needed to be addressed.<p>

"You tired," John murmured, snuggling into him with a yawn.

"I am." That was no excuse, but he was relieved that his small flatmate apparently recognized it as at least a viable reason. "But I am going to do better tomorrow, John. All right?"

"Right." John yawned again, and scrubbed at his eyes with a blanket-covered fist. Sherlock was pleased to hear the word pronounced correctly; it told of the child's ease of mind now.

In the street, a siren sounded, and he absently wondered when he had transitioned from speculating about possible crimes committed to being too concerned with domestic matters to care.

"Sherlock?" he heard a moment later from the bundle curled half-into his lap.

"Yes?"

"When's Christmas?"

"Ah...next week," he hazarded, for it was the 20th of December. Or possibly the 21st. He really did not pay much attention which; that was what the date on his mobile was for.

...wait.

Next _week_!

He vaguely recalled it being customary to spoil a child at Christmastime - this meant braving holiday traffic and frigid weather and sleety pavements and oh horrors, _shopping_...

And what could he possibly get John that he had not already bought?

* * *

><p>Silently whimpering, he rested his head on the couch. He owed it to John to make certain the child had a pleasant Christmas, for he doubted the little one had had many such in his real childhood.<p>

"We going to have a tree? An' presents? An' a ginderbread house?"

Annnnd someone shoot him, please.

"Sherlock?" There was a note of audible worry in the little one's voice now, and he hastily opened his eyes, looking down.

"Yes," he promised rashly, knowing he was probably going to regret this very shortly. "We will have whatever you want, John."

The child sat up, sleepiness vanished on the instant, and stared at him with wide eyes. "Really?"

"Within reason," he cautioned, tapping John's button nose with a finger. John scrunched his face up. "And within Mycroft's credit limit," he added as an afterthought, wondering what exactly that was and could he hack into his trust fund should the opportunity arise.

"With presents!"

"Yes, with presents," he agreed. "You've given thought to what you would like to have, I take it?"

John frowned, and clambered over him to reach the side table. "Not fo' me," he was informed loftily, as a ragged spiral-bound notebook was plopped into his lap, followed by an eager five-year-old.

"What?"

John wriggled into a comfortable position and opened the book.

* * *

><p>John had been a quick learner, he had found, and with very little help had learned basic reading before he'd turned five (whenever that was; this re-transformation made exact dating difficult). Sherlock was astounded, however, to find that the scribble-book held a very passable list of names and gift ideas, written in a child's crayon-scrawl.<p>

"Is this your Christmas gift list, John?" he asked, for he knew the adult had done much the same in years past.

"Yes!" John pointed to the first name on the list, and he hid a smile into the little one's hair. The child was still subject to the laws of phonics, and he could hardly fault him for the spelling of _Lestraid_.

"I believe we could manage this, John," he mused, scanning the list.

He was rather surprised at how thoughtful some of the gifts were, but then John had always been adept at finding the perfect item (as opposed to Sherlock, who had belatedly realised that giving a Christmas gift to one's flatmate of a year was evidently an expected and a Good Thing, and had in blind panic bought the first leather jacket the Bond Street clerk had shown him ten minutes before closing on their first Christmas Eve.)

"John...isn't there someone missing from this list?" he asked as he reached the bottom.

* * *

><p>His small companion looked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence and smiling disarmament.<p>

"Don' think so?"

"Are you certain?" he asked, smiling back.

"Yessss - nono _no_ Sherlock!" the child shrieked, as his fingers crept into a tickling position.

"Hmmm, I do think there is someone missing, John...someone _very_ important..."

The child giggled, and leaned back against him with a small huff. "Not telling."

"Oh, so you _do_ know who's missing."

He elicited another giggle. "Yes but not writing anyfing down! You sneaky too!"

He affected a mortal wound, clutching at his chest. "Why, John, I am deeply hurt!"

"Sure," was the dry retort, muttered into his dressing gown as his small flatmate curled up against him, yawning.

Laughing, he stood to his feet and hoisted the child with him. "It is time for all little boys to be asleep, John."

"Not little," the child grumbled into his collarbone.

He smiled, and started for the stairs. Halfway up them, John lifted his head sleepily. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you wake me up before breakfas'?"

He paused, mystified at the odd request. "If you wish, but why?"

John beamed at him. "Helping Mrs. Hudson make waffles! See!" One hand plunged into a trouser pocket, emerging with a two-pound coin. "Present money!"

Sherlock had never until now understood the metaphor of _melting a bit_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Interlude (22-25/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 884  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Sherlock performs that Most Epic Brave of all endeavours, holiday shopping with a five-year-old.  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October and I have no intention of letting my kidfic turn into another _Insontis _epic (which I am also in the process of updating, for those of you who are also Trek fans). Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:** See all the illustrations for this 'verse via the plug post in my journal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please. 

* * *

><p>Sherlock never would understand humanity and the "normal" segment of the populace. Christmastime was supposed to engender a spirit of goodwill toward one's fellow man, or so the advertisements proclaimed in florid prose, and while it was a fact that the crime rate dropped during the month of December he honestly could not see the reason for the decline. He was only five minutes short of mass homicide himself, after twenty minutes inside Hamley's (and it was still several days before Christmas!). John was stroppy, the rest of the children in the store were screaming loudly enough to be heard in Lambeth, and he could barely move among the chaotic, milling throng.<p>

As a child he had been subject to societal anxiety tendencies, and for the first time as an adult he felt the same sickening claustrophobia start creeping up on him the longer he walked around, helplessly waiting for John to finish what he wanted to see (a promised reward for behaving while they'd been at Lestrade's latest crime scene earlier in the day).

Somewhere on the floor a toddler started shrieking bloody murder. The parent ignored the child instead of taking care of the problem, and when the tantrum continued for another five minutes despite dirty looks from other customers, it was the straw that broke the camel's back.

* * *

><p>John grumbled (loudly) about being dragged unceremoniously down the escalators and into the frigid December evening, but Sherlock was grateful for the fact that the child had learnt a tantrum would only earn him instant isolation from everything of interest, including Sherlock's attention. The lack of the latter seemed a far more effective punishment even than deprivation of privileges.<p>

"You can use my laptop when we get home to make a list of what you want, John," he finally said in exasperation, crouching down to zip the little one's jacket up to his nose. "But there are too many people in the store right now." Thank heaven for online shopping. It was worth paying double for two-day shipping costs, to not be subject to this wholesale madness.

John grizzled into his scarf, and scowled at his left hand, which was stuck with the fingers in the wrong glove holes. Sherlock deftly guided them and then stood, taking the little hand in his. "All right?" he asked, looking down at the tiny bundled figure.

John huffed, a puff of icy crystals below an already red button nose.

"John," he warned.

The child leaned against his leg, repentant. "Sorry, Sherlock," he heard faintly.

He smiled, and scooped the little one up in his arms, eliciting a startled squeak. "Cocoa, then?"

"An' a biscuit!"

* * *

><p>"And a biscuit," he sighed, for his diminutive companion drove a shrewd bargain with all the devious manipulation the adult was capable of in more important matters. "But only one, mind. Mrs. Hudson will be cross if I permit you to spoil your dinner."<p>

"Will take Cwomwell again," John agreed, clutching Sherlock's hand as he stumbled in a puddle of slush.

"Cromwell," he corrected mechanically, though the slip was probably due to cold. "And - wait, how do you know about him?"

Cromwell was the entirely unimaginative name the adult John had given the skull after the fourth row in the flat about Mrs. Hudson hiding it as part distraction and part retaliation.

"Dunno." The child shrugged, rubbing his nose. "What you getting her for Chris-miss, Sherlock?"

"Ah..." What, indeed. "I've no clue. Any ideas in that brilliant little head of yours?" he asked, smiling down at the little one's upturned face.

"I fink a new telly," the child said wisely, with a wistful look into an electronics shop window.

Sherlock snorted. "Do you have an idea which is slightly less grandiose, then. Somehow I doubt Mycroft will appreciate another credit card being maxed to its limit."

John stopped obediently at a crowded and icy street crossing, but as a precaution Sherlock swung him up into his arms without a blink.

* * *

><p>"Wha's grandy-ohs?" the child asked, blinking at him while they waited for the light to change.<p>

"It means _expensive_, little soldier mine," he replied dryly, sidestepping a scowling woman wielding a briefcase. "Do try to curb your generosity."

"Oh. Sherlock look!" A small gloved finger pointed at a shop-window, in which smiled several disturbingly realistic tiny mannequins with moving heads and arms were advertising hideously-coloured knitwear.

"As if you need another jumper," he muttered, though he detoured accordingly (after all, he needed all the help he could in spoiling a "normal" child on Christmas). "John Hamish, that's my _ear_ you are yanking!"

"Sorry," the child muttered absently, nose inches from the glass.

"Which one do you like?" A woman dawdling by with twin six-year-olds smiled indulgently at him, sending the horrible thought through his mind that people might think John was his _son_. It was enough to make his mental hard drive freeze, needing a reboot to continue.

John gave him no such chance. "Blue!" he said loudly, pointing at one in sky-blue with a hideous assortment of snowflakes, something so entirely gender-nonspecific that the adult version of his flatmate would die of horror before putting on.

An evil grin started to creep over his face, as he for the first time truly realised the immense potential here for future blackmail.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: Interlude (22-25/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 884  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Lestrade explains to Sherlock that an iPad is not a suitable gift for a child, and Sherlock gets a snowball down his pants.  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October and I have no intention of letting my kidfic turn into another _Insontis _epic (which I am also in the process of updating, for those of you who are also Trek fans). Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.

* * *

><p>"You bought him <em>what<em>?" Donovan shrieked, causing all heads to jerk in their direction.

Sherlock barely spared her an eyeroll from where he was crawling under the bed in search of a cuff-link which would supposedly frame their prime suspect as not the murderer but the intended victim. "Problem, Sally?" came his voice, muffled.

"Problem? You can't buy a four-year-old an _iPad_ for Christmas!"

"He's _five_," Anderson hollered, from where he was making faces at said red-nosed five-year-old through the glass of the house's French windows. John grinned and pulled his lips apart at the sides with two fingers, sticking his tongue to the frosty glass.

"_Don't_ let him lick the metal doorframe, Anderson," was Lestrade's only comment, delivered between a sigh and a prayer for patience.

"Whyever can't I? John will be pleased to have it once he regains his proper age, and it is quite a useful entertainment and teaching tool," Sherlock snapped, scrambling back to his feet in a flurry of dust bunnies. "As promised," he added, tossing a small sparkling object to the DI, who caught it open-mouthed. "Briggs is innocent."

"How did you -"

"Honestly, do any of you _ever_ listen?" Sherlock asked irritably. "Anderson, do stop corrupting my ward. I have no desire to spend the remainder of my day with a small imitation baboon."

* * *

><p>"You can't give the kid a tablet for Christmas, Sherlock," Lestrade finally pulled the man aside to explain.<p>

Sherlock looked completely mystified. "Why?"

"Because he's too young to appreciate it, and when he's old enough he's going to be embarrassed that you spent that kind of money on him," Lestrade remonstrated sensibly. "Besides that, a kid wants something a little more on his level to play with. Trust me," he added, when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. "It's a...very nice thought, but he'd be happier with an expensive set of Lego blocks."

"Really?"

"Really." Lestrade bit back a grin at the sight of Sherlock's drooping shoulders. "Come now, it can't be that hard to find him some presents? Having trouble shopping, are we?"

"Not precisely," the younger man muttered, scuffing a shoe absently through a disturbed pile of dust.

"What, then?"

"I merely wish to make certain the holiday is...memorable," was the doleful reply. "Obviously his previous childhood memories were not overly so. That is unacceptable."

The light bulb clicked on for Lestrade, and he grinned. "So you were going to buy the kid an iPad not because you're clueless about toys?"

Sherlock favoured him with a withering glare. "I already have twenty-three so-termed _toys_, Lestrade," he said loftily, unaware of the clatter behind him as Donovan dropped her bag.

* * *

><p>"...Did he say <em>twenty-three<em>?" Anderson asked, staring.

Sherlock was still blithely spilling his plans to an increasingly incredulous Lestrade. "I am now in search of what I believe is referred to as the Perfect Gift, usually the last present to be opened on a Christmas morning; generally one which is set apart either by virtue of its sentimental value or extreme expense."

"What's he on about?"

"No idea," Sally muttered. She glanced up just in time to bang on the glass and prevent John from freezing his tongue to the door handle. Honestly, was it ingrained in every child? "Stop that," she shouted through the pane, and grinned when John stuck his tongue out at her instead.

"Ah...that's lovely, Sherlock, really it is." The boss was sending them both a please-for-the-love-of-God-help-me look, which sent them both into a fit of silent laughter. "But...it's not considered mandatory, you know. The whole Perfect Gift. Thing."

Again, the supercilious look. "Perhaps not in your home, Inspector," Sherlock said, with a companionable pat to the DI's arm. "You people and your spectacularly common little households! How _do_ you tolerate your own mediocrity?"

Sally thought Lestrade looked rather like he'd swallowed a pinecone.

"Nevertheless, I shall persevere in my quest," Sherlock continued airily, moving to the French doors and opening one, allowing in a cold blast.

* * *

><p>"John! We are late to meet Uncle Myke!" Sherlock bellowed out onto the snow-blanketed verandah.<p>

Lestrade suddenly choked on his peppermint, and had to be pounded on the back by Anderson, who voiced an incredulous "Who?" to no one in particular.

"Get in here this instant, John, or there will be no pudding!" Sherlock called across the empty expanse of snow, covered in small bootprints.

Sally yelped when a snowball came flying through the open door with deadly accuracy, followed up by Sherlock taking another straight to the face, leaving him blinking in shock and shaking white clumps out of his curls.

"Ambuuuuush!" A tiny bundle of puffy coat and mittens jumped out of the scraggly bushes and tackled the detective, brandishing another two snowballs from a carefully-hidden stockpile.

All three officers froze as Sherlock _shrieked_.

"Um..." Anderson commented, peering out at the scene. Their consultant was fairly dancing about, overcoat flapping in the wind, doing a peculiar sort of hopping wriggle in what looked like an effort to get snow out of his trousers. John danced just out of Sherlock's reach, giggling into his mittened hands.

Silence fell for a few reverent moments while Lestrade videoed the scene on his phone.

Anderson finally broke the silence with the solemn observation, "I think the kid deserves a DVD player too, boss."


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: Interlude (30-34/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 5x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Sherlock crashes, exhausted from Christmas shopping with a five-year-old, and Mycroft tells the world he is a politician, not a babysitter. Also, John becomes a spy.  
><strong>AN:<strong> Wilkins is a reprise of my OC Wilkins, Mycroft Holmes's secretary/everything-else-imaginable from the ACD-verse. He can be seen in several of my Holmes stories including _With Friends Like These, Holidays with Holmes, The Written Front,_ etc., and may be used with permission, if anyone cares.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes was not a babysitter, thank you very much.<p>

As was typical, his twit of a little brother completely ignored him. Granted, Sherlock had crashed exhausted on his couch and was currently snoring fit to wake the crotchety Mr. Melas who lived in the flat above, but that was no excuse for saddling him with a wide-eyed, curious, five-year-old stoked up on currant pudding (an unwise decision, but then Sherlock had always been prey to the most appalling motherly tendencies to anything with large eyes).

"What you doing, Uncle Myke?" Said blue eyes were peeping over the edge of his desk, barely visible.

"Working, John."

"On what?"

"Business," he replied.

"What kind'f business?"

"Very important business, which requires utter silence," he said, forcing a smile.

"Oh." Silence for a blessed fifteen seconds. "Doessat mean you wan' me to be quiet, then?"

He refrained from shouting an enthusiastic affirmative, and only said simply, "Yes, if you'd be so kind, John."

The child hopped twice to peek at the documents on his desk, huffed at his inability to see properly, and pouted, leaning against his leg.

Across the room, Sherlock snorted and rolled over, one arm dangling off the side of the chaise.

Eighteen seconds of blessed silence.

Then, the accursed word, which froze him with familiar horror.

"Uncle Myke, I'm booooored!"

* * *

><p>"Thank God Sherlock never fathered a child," he muttered under his breath, as he scrawled a signature, stamped the file, and rang for his secretary. "John, desist from tormenting my brother; I assure you he will not find tattooed facial hair amusing."<p>

The child flushed guiltily and backed away from the sleeping man, marker clutched surreptitiously in one small hand.

"Sir?" Wilkins, one of his secretaries-slash-highly-trained-bodyguards poked his head into the room, and Mycroft noticed with amusement that John looked highly disappointed it was not Anthea.

"The Undersecretary is waiting for this, Wilkins; do see he gets it within the hour."

"Are you a _spy_?" John asked suddenly, wandering up to the towering young man. "Uncle Myke works for the governnint an' there's spies and stuff, I seen them in movies."

Mycroft felt his ears redden as his black-suited underling grinned, flicking him a quizzical eyebrow; most of his inner circle knew about the Rehabilitation Incident, as they were calling it now, and he was never going to hear the end of this.

"Wilkins, _if_ you don't mind," he forced out through a clenched smile.

"Of course, sir." The young man took the file, cast an amused look at the still-snoring detective, and then crouched down in front of the child. "Hello, John," he said quietly, and the boy's eyes bulged.

* * *

><p>"How you know my name?" John whispered loudly, eyes wide.<p>

"Because I _am_ a spy," Wilkins said mysteriously, beckoning the little one to come closer. He ignored the snort from his employer; everyone knew Mycroft Holmes was mostly bark and very little bite if you were not an idiot. "I have something for you, if you want it."

John gave him a calculating look, frowning, and then edged closer after dropping his marker on the floor. The young man pulled an ink-pen from his jacket pocket and handed it to the child, who looked down, puzzled.

"Look," Wilkins said, and scribbled the name _John Watson_ on a small Moleskine retrieved from another pocket. The child watched with interest as the words slowly disappeared on the paper. "And now," he pushed a button on the side of the pen, and the cap end lit up with a blue light. After shining the light upon the paper, the words reappeared.

"Whoa," John breathed, awed.

Wilkins grinned and handed the pen back to the child. "Consider it an early Christmas present, kid. And don't go writing on any walls, either. Or people," he added, seeing the suspicious faint traces of blue on the sleeping man's upper lip.

"No, sir!" Small hands clutched tightly around his gift, John beamed worshipfully up at his new benefactor.

* * *

><p>"Thank you!"<p>

Mycroft's tolerance had reached its limits. "Wilkins, the Undersecretary, _if you please_?" he hissed, massaging his temples with both hands.

"Even spies get grumpy when they're on a diet," Wilkins confided in a loud whisper, and John giggled.

"Wilkins..."

"Aye, sir. John, when you're older come see me, we'll get you a job with MI-6."

The child's eyes were about to pop out of his head. "Really?" he gasped.

"Really," the young man said with a grin.

"WILKINS!"

"Yes, boss, the Undersecretary. Adieu, John. _Sir_." Mycroft tried not to whimper as the impertinent brat gave him a flippant salute before shutting the door behind him.

The next minute an over-excited five-year-old had his leg in an armlock, nattering at near-lightspeed. "Uncle Myke did you hear what he said he said I can be a spy when I get big again an' he give me this pen and it writes invisible an' are you really on a diet because you ate four scones at lunch an' Sherlock only let me have one?"

Mycroft vaguely debated the dubious morality of causing a minor skirmish in South Africa to call him out of the office. Common sense prevailed, and he utilized the more logical method of relieving his torture session before he succumbed under the urge to beat out his own brains.

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke with a yelp when a small body hurtled through the air to land on his chest, vibrating with energy and chattering like a magpie.<p>

"You did _not_ just feed him tea and cake, Mycroft!" he yowled, after scrambling to his feet and observing the child's sugar-sprinkled face.

Mycroft smirked.

"I am endeavouring to raise a child to be healthy and well-mannered and you - you!" The younger man threw up his hands dramatically, unaware that he was being mimicked by a silently giggling five-year-old behind him. "He will never wind down!"

"To quote a certain detective inspector of our mutual acquaintance, _not my division_. Do send Wilkins in when you leave, Sherlock? You _are_ leaving, yes?"

"You rude," John commented, though he did not seem overly bothered. "Sherlock says if you rude you get _noffing_ for Christmas."

"I assure you, the absence of Father Christmas from my home Christmas Eve will not upset me, John," he replied dryly.

He received such a condescending look that he blinked, astonished. "Father Christmas not real, Uncle Myke," John said severely.

"Sherlock, you did _not_ disillusion a five-year-old!"

"Nothing of the kind!"

John beamed from his newly-acquired perch on Sherlock's shoulders. "Not _need_ Father Christmas," he decreed proudly. "I have Sherlock!"

He'd never really noticed just how deeply his little brother could blush.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: Interlude (35-40/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 6x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> John is sugar-wired and stroppy, and Sherlock steps up to bat as a parent dealing with a disobedient child.  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October and I have no intention of letting my kidfic turn into another _Insontis _epic (which I am also in the process of updating, for those of you who are also Trek fans). Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:** See all the illustration for this 'verse via this plug post in my journal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please. 

* * *

><p>"Want cocoa, Sherlock."<p>

"No."

"Please?"

He refused to be swayed by a pouting lower lip, wide blue eyes, and tiny mittened hands clasped together in mock petition. "John, you have had entirely too much sugar already today, and we still have to return to Inspector Lestrade's crime scene tonight. You are having nothing besides a nap."

John looked highly affronted, more that his manipulative attempts did not work than that he did not get his requested beverage. "Not sleepy," he groused with a scowl.

"So I see," Sherlock replied dryly, dragging the child off the stair railings (his small flatmate seemed to have an internal urge to climb) by the hood of his puffy coat. John's arms flailed momentarily like small insulated wind-socks. "Nevertheless, you are going to have a nap unless you wish to be left with Mrs. Hudson tonight."

"No!"

"You had better be expressing a negative toward being left with our landlady, rather than telling _me_ no, John," he warned, and received a scowling but reluctant affirmative. "Now, pop upstairs and change into your pyjamas; you are covered in snow." _And so am I_, his freezing brain (and other portions of his anatomy) informed him mournfully.

"_Not_ sleepy," John informed him with a haughty sniff, pulling free and darting up the stairs with a clump of snow boots.

* * *

><p>An hour later, Sherlock was seriously contemplating giving John adult cough syrup despite his rosy-cheeked health, simply because it would make the child <em>sleep<em>. Mycroft's evil intent had borne fruit, and John was pinging off furniture, refusing to remain either in his bed or on the couch, insisting he was "wide 'wake, Sherlock!" and generally edging Sherlock closer and closer to the cliff-edge of justifiable suicide.

He had just fired off the latest in a set of creative threats and general hate texts to his brother, when there was a crash from the lounge (the latest in John's locations for the much-dreaded nap). Resisting the urge to whimper into his coffee cup (double-strength espresso mix, courtesy of a grinning Anderson this morning), he set the mug down and re-entered the room.

John was sprawled on his back in front of the fireplace, the skull clutched safely in his hands but a glass (Sherlock was measuring the development of mold in a half-drunk coke) shattered to his right.

But it was not the destroyed experiment which caused him to swoop down and scoop the sobbing child up in his arms, but the fact that John had not started crying until he entered the room. His flatmate had taken one look at his thunderous expression and had curled up into a little ball.

* * *

><p>"How many times must I tell you to not climb the furniture?" he scolded, patting the child's back as he clutched his jacket and sobbed out a half-coherent apology. "You could have sliced your head open on the fire-guard or broken your neck or a dozen other things! I have <em>told<em> you not to touch anything you can't reach without climbing!"

"I sorry!" the little one wailed, skull forgotten as Sherlock placed it safely back in its spot on the mantel as he stood, wobbling under the weight of a growing five-year-old. "Weally sorry, Sherlock!"

"Shhh," he murmured, now thoroughly aghast at the way the little one was cringing, as if afraid Sherlock was about to blow up in his face; this was a setback, a bad one. "Come here, John." He hauled himself over to the couch, mindful of the broken glass. Once seated, he propped the child on his lap and leaned back to look into the little one's face. "Look at me," he directed gently.

John rubbed his eyes, still crying, and peered through his fingers at him.

"Do you understand why I am angry and upset with you?" he asked quietly.

"Was bad," John wailed, hiding his face in Sherlock's jacket.

He pinched the bridge of his nose before bringing his arms around the distraught little boy.

* * *

><p>"No, John. Naughty, yes, you were. But I am not angry because you did something I told you not to."<p>

The child peered up at him with one eye, the other still hidden in Sherlock's now-damp jacket. "Not mad?"

"No." He smiled down at his small charge. "I am upset, John, because you did something that could have hurt you. I am not angry, and I am not going to ever punish you when I am angry, do you understand that?"

The child nodded against him.

"I will never strike you, nor will I yell at you," he continued emphatically. "I may raise my voice, John, as I did just now, but was that yelling?"

"No," was the quiet response. "You yell at Uncle Myke."

He chuckled. "I do, John; but that is what siblings do."

"What's siblins?" The murmur was only partially intelligible, as the child leaned against him.

"Siblings," he corrected. "Sibling is a word that can mean a brother or a sister."

"Oh." John hiccoughed, and blinked in surprise.

"Would you like a cup of water?" The child nodded. "Stay there while I fetch it; I do not want you getting cut by glass," he commanded sternly, and received a second nod.

He would be so very, very glad when John returned to his proper state of being.

* * *

><p>He got his small companion a glass of water, cleaned up the mess from the spilled soda, and then finally returned, snatching John's newest plush acquisition, a Christmas edition Paddington Bear, on the way. The child held out his arms eagerly for the soft toy, and then crawled into Sherlock's lap once he'd sat down beside the boy.<p>

Sherlock shook his head and gently put the child down on the other end of the couch before standing. "The fact remains that you did something you were specifically told not to do, John," he said, refusing to give in to the tears welling up anew in the child's eyes. "You will sit there by yourself for twenty minutes and think about the six rules I have set for you, number one being that you will obey the following five rules and agree to the punishments we set in place for breaking them."

"But -"

"What is rule number three, John?" he asked severely.

The child slumped, chin mashing into the top of the bear's furry head. "No talking back if I's in trouble," he muttered, sniffling a little.

"Very good," Sherlock said, with a small smile. "Now you will sit there and recall the rest of them, and think about the reasons why I made those rules in the first place."

"But twenty minutes is _forever_!" the little one wailed miserably, clutching his bear.

* * *

><p>"If you had gone to sleep as you were told to, then you would not be forced to endure it, now would you?" he replied, unperturbed. "Shush now. You may lie down and close your eyes if it will help you think."<p>

John huffed softly and scooted into a curled-up position facing the back of the couch, so perfectly imitating one of Sherlock's own sulks that he retreated to the kitchen so as to not give the show away by snorting with laughter. After finishing his lukewarm espresso, he returned to the lounge, and was pleased to see that John was still intent upon ignoring him. He did not mind the expression of pouting, as all children did so and they had the right to feel emotions, unless the expression turned to outright defiance and disrespect, and so he said nothing about John's elaborate grumble and sigh of annoyance.

He picked up his beloved violin on the way to the window and began improvising a soft, lilting melody inspired by Celtic music, and well before the allotted twenty minutes of punishment he was relieved to see John's breathing even out. The little figure relaxed with a small sigh and a drowsy wriggle, and then was still.

_Finally_, he fairly whimpered silently, as he went to find the now-sleeping child a blanket.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title**: Interlude (41-44/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 4x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Dimmock is a Good Uncle figure, and Sherlock walks off a kerb into the path of a bicycle.  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October and I have no intention of letting my kidfic turn into another _Insontis _epic (which I am also in the process of updating, for those of you who are also Trek fans). Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:** See all the illustrations for this 'verse via this plug post in my journal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please.

* * *

><p>"You look like the night's over instead of just starting, Freak," Donovan commented as they walked down the corridor toward Lestrade's office. "Parenting a bit harder than you expected? Raising a kid to not be a psychopath just another one of your experiments to you?"<p>

"You rude," John piped up from behind them, where he was hanging onto Sherlock's overcoat with one hand and licking a rainbow lolly (courtesy of Dimmock as they walked through the foyer) held in the other. "You get nothing fo' Christmas if you rude, Aunt Sally."

Sherlock grinned into his scarf as Donovan sputtered, and opened the DI's office door. Lestrade's boots slammed hastily down from the desk before he saw them and relaxed.

"Working hard, then, I see, Lestrade," he muttered, breezing into the room. John toddled after him, clambering up into his lap once Sherlock was seated. Unfortunately, this action resulted in the precious lolly being stuck to his lapel. John peeled the sweet off and promptly popped it back into his mouth, lint and all, much to Sherlock's horror. "That is disgusting, John."

A small rainbow-hued tongue poked out at him from around the lolly.

Lestrade snorted, grinning into his coffee cup. "You ready to go over this file, then? And if you're right in tying this new job to the Brackwell burglary..."

* * *

><p>"Have you known me to ever be wrong?"<p>

"D'you really want me to answer that, and would you like me to start with the solar system?"

John giggled and crunched an edge off the lolly. "Round an' round the garden, like a teddy bear!" he interjected, waving an arm for emphasis.

"Eh?" Lestrade looked confused.

"Never mind," he grunted, hefting the child into the chair beside him and taking the files the DI was proffering. "When can I talk to the maid?"

"Now, if you like. Was only waiting for you so we can head out."

"Hungry," John interjected, eyeing Lestrade's pastry hopefully.

"You've a lolly," Sherlock replied without batting an eye, "and I promised you Chinese after we are done here; can you wait another hour?"

The child leaned backward to look at him upside-down. "Can I have a fortune cookie?" he asked shrewdly.

Sherlock voiced a long-suffering sigh. "I suppose. Have we a bargain?"

"Don' fo-get about the Christmas tree, Sherlock," John told him, squirreling under Lestrade's desk in pursuit of heaven only knew what.

"Christmas tree?"

"I promised him, against my better judgment, that we would decorate the tree when we got home, Lestrade," Sherlock said with a grimace of distaste. "You would not, by chance, wish to spend an evening cleaning up conifer needles and smashed baubles?"

* * *

><p>John had located the beetle and now scrambled out from under the desk, examining his prize with a child-sized magnifying lens which made Lestrade grin knowingly and Sherlock squirm under the look.<p>

"Are you actually inviting me over of an evening, like a regular bloke, Sherlock?"

"I am all but groveling for some aid in minding a hyperactive and embarrassingly clingy child," the amateur snapped, flushing. "Even my patience has limits when it comes to fastening fairy-lights and garland about, while being forced to listen to yet another rendition of _Last Christmas_ from a dubiously talented pop singer."

John hopped on one foot, letting his beetle fly free (Lestrade ducked as the thing whirred past his head), and grinned mischievously before launching into song. "Laaaaast Christmas, I gave you -"

"John Hamish Watson, I will take your lolly and eat it _right in front of you_," Sherlock snarled menacingly.

"I dropped it," John informed him dolefully, waving the offending candy in the air. Lestrade cringed upon seeing a case file (and a good deal of dust) stuck to it.

Sherlock flipped his lapels up and buttoned his coat, then made certain John's was zipped up to his nose. "I am sure you are capable of weaseling something out of Sergeant Anderson, John, when we get to the scene of the burglary."

* * *

><p>Lestrade marveled sadly at how few seconds it took for a pleasant situation to degenerate into mayhem.<p>

Almost six months was a good - unheard of, actually - track record for Sherlock's health and wholeness of body, and they really shouldn't have been shocked that it did finally happen. Lestrade was surprised, however, that it was nothing more than a moment of carelessness and not outright disregard for life and limb which finally overturned the apple-cart of Sherlock's safety.

The old cliche, _it happened so fast_, was nonetheless applicable. John was skipping along beside a smiling Sergeant Donovan, prattling eagerly about the "ginderbread house" he and Sherlock were to put together the next day. Lestrade was texting Dimmock a response to the video he'd uploaded last night, one of Sherlock sneaking up on his tiny flatmate and tickling him until he shrieked, in the hallway outside Dimmock's office.

Sherlock was gesticulating his displeasure at police procedure and the general incompetence of Lestrade's investigative team (the visit with the maid had not gone well, mostly because the woman had all the intelligence and emotional instability of a doorknob), and keeping one wary eye on John, who was lobbing small snowballs at inanimate objects they passed.

And, talking over his shoulder to Lestrade, Sherlock walked off the kerb right into an oncoming bicycle.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title**: Interlude (45-51/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 7x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Sally Donovan redeems herself, as this takes places post-Season Two (**spoilers**), and Plot starts to happen. *le gasp*  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October and I have no intention of letting my kidfic turn into another _Insontis _epic (which I am also in the process of updating, for those of you who are also Trek fans). Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:**See all the illustrations for this 'verse via this plug post in my journal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please.

* * *

><p>Sally Donovan had a degree in child psychology, and had dealt with countless abuse situations - and in her informed opinion no sound in the world was more wrenching than the scream of a terrified child.<p>

Lestrade was already moving before John's shriek was aborted as Sally swung him up into her arms. He belatedly remembered now, John's aversion to bicycles (God knows he'd never want to see one again, too, if it had been _him_ knocked down outside Bart's hospital), and the fact that Sherlock was lying with blood running down over his eyes could very well be a more potent trigger than a war-torn nightmare. Who knew how the child-brain would interpret half-veiled memories?

"Shhh, it's okay, sweetheart," Sally was murmuring, struggling to hold onto the frantically wriggling little one. "It'll be okay, love, it will. It will be okay."

"Sherlock!"

"_Don't_ let go of him," Lestrade barked sharply, and though she grimaced as John's flailing legs impacted her shins she well knew the wisdom of the command.

The horrified cyclist had immediately braked and called emergency services, for which quick thinking Lestrade was thankful, and was now wringing her hands, her young face twisted in distress.

"I didn't see him, I swear!" the woman practically wailed, eyes filling with tears at the sight of the sobbing little boy.

* * *

><p>"It's all right, he walked off the kerb without looking, the great idiot," Sally soothed, moving closer to the distraught cyclist. "No one's blaming you."<p>

John had exhausted his frantic struggles to break free of the policewoman's strong grip and had gone limp against her shoulder, sobbing "Sherlock" quietly over and over again.

"I'm so sorry," the girl gasped, rubbing mascara-smeared eyes. "So sorry! He's not - is he -"

Sherlock chose that moment to bolt upright, cracking Lestrade smartly in the nose.

Lestrade's howl of pain (and epithet of choice) was drowned out by Sherlock's massive groan as his eyes rolled back up in his head and he slumped back onto Lestrade's coat, which had been hastily balled up under his head.

"Please," Sally muttered. "It's better than Monday night telly, really."

John was still sobbing into her shoulder, she would probably never get the stains out, and she gave the cyclist's shoulder a reassuring pat and moved toward her boss, who was holding his nose with one hand and palpitating Sherlock's torso with the other.

"I thig he's all right, for the most pard," the DI muttered testily, glaring at the unconscious amateur. "Cracked a rib, probably, and that head's not going to feel pretty when he wakes up again."

"Shall I call a second ambulance for you, boss?"

* * *

><p>Lestrade's glare could have peeled paint.<p>

She smirked, passed a still-sobbing John off to her superior, and then turned her attention to more important things like trying to clear gawpers from the scene and get a statement from their unfortunate cyclist. In the process of taking Miss Hunter's name and address, gently prying the report from her, and then sending her off with the paramedics to be treated for shock, she forgot about their youngest victim.

Ten minutes after Sherlock had been taken away in an ambulance, she slid into the back seat of the car Lestrade had summoned, and looked at the silent little one. John sat huddled up under a blanket Lestrade had purloined from the medics, staring at the back of the seat in front of him, clutching something which upon closer inspection she found to be Sherlock's mobile phone.

She was an expert in child behavior, and what she saw worried her. John was no longer crying, no longer really reacting to anything around him, only sitting there clutching the edges of the blanket as if he wanted to hide inside the fleece and never come out.

"Sherlock's going to be all right, you know, didn't Inspector Lestrade tell you that?" she ventured after a minute of awkward silence.

John nodded, huddling down further into his blanket.

* * *

><p>"You know you can believe Inspector Lestrade, right?"<p>

Another nod, almost mechanical, but no other expression of emotion, fear or otherwise.

"Can you look at me, sweetheart?" she tried, kneeling on the floor of the car so as to be on the child's eye level.

John obediently flicked a glance up at her before returning to staring at the mobile in his mittened hands. Sally saw that they were shaking slightly, and she banged on the car window to get her superior's attention. Lestrade turned, still talking into his mobile (to the hospital, she presumed), and nodded, holding up a hand with fingers spread to indicate he'd just be five minutes.

She sighed and moved back to the car seat, at a loss how to proceed. How could she help a kid when they didn't even know how much, if anything, he remembered of his adult life, and how those memories were affecting him? "John," she began gently, but before she could finish she was shocked to see the little one crawl into her lap and begin to cry softly.

Shocked, she could only wrap her arms around the tiny form and hold him close, praying to a deity she wasn't even sure existed that this scrap of humanity wouldn't be permanently traumatized just when they thought he was getting better.

* * *

><p>Sally had never liked Sherlock Holmes, had even despised him at one point not too long ago - had accused him of kidnapping and terrorizing a couple of children, and had really believed him capable of committing the crimes. Water under the bridge now, that was, and their relationship had drastically improved since Sherlock's return (though she still really couldn't stand him, the horridly insufferable man).<p>

But John Watson - John had hated her with a bitter, bitter hatred for a long time after Sherlock's faked suicide. John was a good man, and more importantly a decent bloke - and the road back to their previously cordial relationship had been a long and hard one. She respected John more than she liked him, and she'd had to re-earn that respect since Sherlock's return. They were still indifferently cool toward one another, especially as she still couldn't resist needling Sherlock when he was too full of himself, and so to have this child-version of John seeking comfort from her of all people shocked her to the core.

Lestrade's eyes were pinched with worry as he slid into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition.

"Well?" she asked, gently rubbing the child's back.

The DI's sigh was half relief, half exasperation. "Cracked ribs," he reiterated wearily, "concussion, plenty of bruises."

* * *

><p>"They'll want to keep him overnight for observation, but there's not much else they can do but strap him up, dose him up, and send him home to rest."<p>

"And how exactly is he going to be able to take care of a child in that condition?"

Lestrade looked at her in the rearview mirror.

"Ohhh no. Absolutely not!" she exclaimed.

"He seems to like you well enough," her boss observed slyly, waiting for her to put the child into his own seat and strap him in before pulling out into traffic.

John whimpered, clinging to her, but finally was pried loose enough to have his seat belt buckled around him. Sally ruffled his hair, which was still damp from snow, and handed him the fleecy blanket, into which he burrowed until the only parts of him that were visible were the tips of his small Wellies.

"Someone's going to have to help him for the next couple of days at least -"

"I am not helping the Freak decorate a gingerbread house and wrap Christmas presents, thank you very much," she interrupted in a no-nonsense tone, daring Lestrade to even suggest otherwise.

John's head appeared, bearing a scowl of such magnitude it was almost frightening. "Sherlock not a freak!" he yelled hotly, causing Lestrade to jump, nearly rear-ending a bus.

* * *

><p>"Sorry, John," she apologised, genuinely enough. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Aunt Sally won't say it again, I promise." John glared at her, looking unconvinced of her sincerity. "Because remember, if I'm mean then I don't get anything from Father Christmas, isn't that right?" she added, putting a gentle hand on the fleece-covered head.<p>

John nodded, deflating.

"There's a good little soldier," she said, smiling. "Now we're going to go see Sherlock, okay?"

"Inna hos-pital?"

"Yes, in the hospital," she replied. "He's being taken care of by some very good doctors, John."

"Issit St. Bart's hos-pital?"

The innocent question froze her momentarily, because she was fairly certain that none of them had ever mentioned the building to John. While it was possible he had overheard the place in conversation, it was unlikely that the child would make the connections simply by overhearing it.

Lestrade glanced in the mirror, frowning. "John, why St. Bart's?" he asked.

John frowned, scrubbing at one eye with a small mittened hand. "Bad place," he mumbled.

"It's a bad place?" Sally repeated quietly.

John nodded, trying to blink back tears which welled up again. For a moment she watched, heart clenching, as the little one sniffled and dashed away a tear before finally breaking down and wailing "Don't want Sherlock to die!" before burying his face in the blanket.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title**: Interlude (52-56/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 5x221 (seven or eight more tomorrow, I promise, but I am coughing up a lung atm so this is what you get.:P)  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff, basic plotline spoilers for 2x03  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong>Lestrade, Sally, and John visit Sherlock in the hospital, and Sherlock receives the "Stop, Look, and Listen" lecture from an increasingly hysterical five-year-old.

* * *

><p>"Talk about baggage," Lestrade murmured, as they walked down the hospital corridor. "You don't suppose..."<p>

"He's remembering things he shouldn't?" she finished soberly. "If he is, we have problems, and not just juvenile PTSD."

They both looked down at the tiny figure toddling along beside them. One of John's hands was clutching Lestrade's larger one, while the child's free arm encircled a horribly garish plush parrot which John had insisted on purchasing in the hospital gift shop on their way in (pulling his "emergency money" from his shoe and insisting the gift met the criteria, much to the clerk's amusement).

"Okay there?" Lestrade asked as they turned the corner.

John's Wellie squeaked on the polished floor. He glanced up, trying valiantly to crack a smile at the kindly DI. "Okay," he echoed softly.

"Why the parrot, John?" Sally asked as the continued down the corridor.

This got her a tiny smile. "Because _piwates_," was the little one's somewhat obscure answer.

"Pirrrrates, John," Lestrade corrected.

The child nodded. "_All_ pi-rrrrrrates have parrots," he said sagely.

"Ooo-kay. Right. Should've known that." Lestrade met Donovan's eye with a half-shrug. "Sherlock's a pirate, then, is he?"

"No," the child enunciated severely, glancing up at him with a weirdly familiar ye-gods-these-people-are-idiots look. "Sherlock issa con-_consoling_ _de-tec-tive_."

Sally carefully concealed her snort of laughter behind Lestrade's back.

* * *

><p>"But he tells me piwate stories afore I fall 'sleep," John continued, oblivious both to the adults' increasingly evil amusement and Lestrade's mild concern at the return of the child's speech impediment.<p>

"Does he now." Grinning, Lestrade made a mental note to see if Big Brother still had a camera installed for medical safety's sake in the child's bedroom.

"Uh-huh."

Lestrade looked down as John scuffed a boot on the floor with a rubbery squeak, dragging his heels. "Sherlock's going to be all right, y'know," he crouched down and said quietly, as Sally moved ahead of them to find the correct room.

"Scared," John whispered, clutching the stuffed parrot close to his chest with both arms.

"I know, kid." The DI's honest eyes were pinched with small worry lines. "But you don't need to be scared. Remember when Sherlock had you play doctor last time I was over for tea?"

"Yes?"

"Well, these people here aren't just playing - they're the real thing, and they're the best at what they do, we wouldn't have sent him here otherwise. Sherlock will be fine, just you see. In fact, knowing him, the ruddy idiot, he's probably already awake and throwing things at the nurses because he's bored with it all," he added dryly.

John giggled, his small face considerably less anxious than before.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was, indeed, both awake and bored, though not throwing things (due more to the IV taped to his hand and a lack of projectiles than through strength of longsufferance with hospital staff). Lestrade didn't get his mobile out in enough time to snap a blackmail picture of the way the amateur's eyes fairly lit up at the sight of his small companion; but one couldn't have everything, and he and Dimmock had a stash on his hard drive for future nefarious purposes, should Sherlock prove at a later date to be his usual homicidal-tendencies-inducing self.<p>

John's little face was wreathed in smiles as he scrambled up on the plastic chair beside the hospital bed (Sally had a bad moment when it rocked precariously on two legs in the process), and he finally settled himself and shoved the stuffed parrot into his adored guardian's hands.

"Is a piwate parrot, Sherlock," he explained proudly.

"_Pirate_," Sherlock corrected, inspecting the slightly squashed animal.

John was unoffended, and rubbed his nose absently with one hand as he leaned over the chair arm to poke the plush bird's garish orange beak. "'S what I said."

"Well, it is certainly..." Sherlock fumbled, received a glare from his two adult visitors, and rallied with a valiant effort. "Very aesthetically appealing, John."

The child stared at him blankly.

* * *

><p>"Very soft. And colourful," he supplied after a frantic trudge through the child-worthy vocabulary room of his mind palace. "In the extreme," he added as an honest afterthought.<p>

"I suggested the fiber optic We-Wuv-You angel bear, but he insisted upon the rainbow parrot." Sally mentioned in a bored tone, leaning against the door jamb. "Something about pirates and boys never growing up, wasn't it, boss?"

Sherlock's theatrical blush made a machine near his elbow beep, which in turn caused Lestrade to jump forward just in time to catch John as he nearly toppled the chair trying to read the machine's display.

John scowled at the lit screen, small sandy brows clenched together, and entirely ignored Lestrade's careful plopping his Wellies back on solid plastic and said plastic then flat-footed on the floor. Finally the child turned an unyielding face toward the bed and its occupant.

"Blood-pwessure too low!" John announced severely.

A nurse passing in the corridor stopped to coo at the "darlin' wee lad," and was promptly sent on her way by Donovan's brusque dismissal and shutting of the door in her face.

"You tell him, John," Lestrade muttered, grinning at Sherlock's discomfiture. Heaven knew how the kid could remember what a normal blood pressure reading was, but apparently some adult knowledge was starting to filter through the child's brain.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, Sherlock was scowling as his small flatmate began admonishing him severely (complete with a tiny finger pointed sternly at his nose) to "stop, look an' listen!" before crossing busy streets.<p>

Lestrade was pretending to review case notes on his phone, because nothing short of gory photos could prevent him from howling with laughter as Sherlock slid lower and lower in his bed trying to avoid an increasingly upset five-year-old.

Rather hilarious, actually, given that the adult John Watson had no doubt done the same thing more than once, but there was nothing at all funny about the child version of John finally bursting into tears and flinging himself at a thoroughly shocked Sherlock.

Sherlock tentatively brought his arms up to encircle the small body and looked helplessly at Lestrade.

"Ah...not my area," Lestrade said, sincerely. "You're the expert here, Sherlock."

"I thought you were _dead_ again!" John wailed into the shoulder of Sherlock's hospital gown.

Every adult in the room froze.

"_Again_?" Sherlock gasped, voice tinged with horror.

Donovan tapped a finger against her lips, trying to decide if she should offer John a sweetie or let the Freak continue his horrendously inept attempt at hugging. "Inspector?"

"I need to make a call," he muttered, already scrolling through his mobile's contact list to the entry _Sherlock's Creeper Brother_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title**: Interlude (57-64/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 8x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Mycroft Holmes divulges Plot, and there is some much-deserved cuddling.  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October and I have no intention of letting my kidfic turn into another _Insontis _epic (which I am also in the process of updating, for those of you who are also Trek fans). Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:** See all the illustrations for this 'verse via this plug post in my journal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please. 

* * *

><p>As the phone rang through, Lestrade watched from outside the hospital room as Sherlock finally had the good sense (helped along the way by a pointed glare and a few choice words from Donovan) to wrap his tiny flatmate into a close embrace (Dimmock called it a <em>snuggle<em> when he saw Sally's photo, and Sherlock sent his computer a virus when that little titbit went viral) and try to calm the half-hysterical little boy.

He'd just seen the garish stuffed parrot make an appearance, swiftly aborted as Sherlock's wrapped ribs protested the movement, when Mycroft Holmes finally deigned to answer the phone.

_"I trust this is nothing short of an emergency, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"_

He really did not get paid enough to put up with that smarmy, self-important tone of voice. "Is your brother getting hit by a bicycle and John Watson starting to regain his adult memories enough of an emergency for you?" he asked curtly.

Silence for a few moments. _"I take it that Sherlock is relatively unharmed, else your tone would not be so modulated."_

"I couldn't care less what you trust, Mr. Holmes. But yes, he's going to be a holy terror for the next few weeks while he's down with cracked ribs and a mild concussion, nothing more serious if his nurse is to be believed."

* * *

><p><em>"And Dr. Watson?"<em>

"Five-year-old John Watson took one look at the equipment in your brother's hospital room and told him his blood pressure was too low, for Sherlock," he replied. "This was _after_ he told Sergeant Donovan that St. Bart's Hospital was a 'bad place' and about fifteen minutes before he told Sherlock that he thought your brother was dead _again_."

_"...This is an unexpected development, even with his delayed return to age,"_ came the thoughtful reply. _"Has he shown any other signs of adult memories asserting themselves in this regression?"_

"Not unless you count dreams, nightmares mostly, about Afghanistan."

_"Dreams do not count, at least in our own research in this matter, Detective Inspector. This is the first time a waking memory has been recalled by the child, then?"_

"I believe so. And call him John - not _the child_," he snapped, nearing the end of his patience with the entire thing. Months of unexpectedly having to endure Sherlock without the buffer of the adult John Watson (cuteness factor did not diffuse crime scene tension so well as a few well-chosen threats from an ex-soldier) had thinned his patience to a fine, fine veneer. "He's not one of your experiments!"

_"Of course not, Inspector."_ The smooth voice sounded more patronizing than placating, but he knew when to pick his battles.

* * *

><p><em>"This is somewhat disconcerting news, Inspector Lestrade - because the return of such memories usually heralds the imminent physical progression to the subject's proper age."<em>

For a minute he didn't quite register that, and then nearly dropped the mobile in sudden realization. "You mean he's getting ready to change back, finally? After all these delayed months?"

_"It is possible,"_ was the cautious reply. _"I admit the situation is unprecedented and we are somewhat at a loss to predict results properly, given their singular nature. But I believe it would behoove you to forewarn my brother accordingly."_

"Some reason why you can't tell him yourself? And who in the twenty-first century uses the word _behoove_, anyway?" he asked incredulously, running a hand through his hair. What was he, a bloody postal owl? "Has anyone ever told you that your selective communication skills for family are complete rubbish?"

_"Quite so, by considerably more eloquent, though not as well-intentioned, members of our limited circle of acquaintances. Do warn my brother, Inspector, to monitor the child closely and keep me informed as to developments."_

"As you wish, milord," he said, not bothering to veil the sarcasm, and hoping the elder Holmes could deduce as well as the younger when he was rolling his eyes.

A dry chuckle surprised him, before the line went blank.

* * *

><p>Lestrade sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. This news would, in some bizarre way, probably break Sherlock's heart - and they would <em>all<em> miss the little tornado of energy that had brightened their lives for several months.

His melancholia must have been visible even to a concussed Sherlock, because he got a sharply questioning look when he returned.

"Sir?" Donovan asked softly, careful to not wake John, who had conked out after crying himself hoarse in Sherlock's arms. Lestrade pretended to not notice that his consultant was slowly stroking the child's damp curls, obviously unaware of his display (blame the happy drugs, which Lestrade would also be monitoring in coming weeks).

"I just talked to your brother," he said quietly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "He thinks the return of adult memories signals the re-transformation is going to happen soon."

Sally looked like she was about to cry, and hastily excused herself before any of them could become embarrassed. Sherlock looked no less stricken. "Are you certain?"

"Reasonably, given the other test subjects. John's just...taken a bit longer, apparently."

Sherlock glanced down at the sleeping child, curled up tightly against his bandaged side. "I do profess relief at the prospect at last," he sighed, head flopping back against the pillow in a flourish of tangled dark curls. "Although...this has been..."

* * *

><p>"I know you're on the good drugs, but please, there's a limit to the amount of sap I can tolerate in one holiday season," Lestrade interjected, smothering a grin.<p>

The younger man looked singularly unimpressed, and favored him with his best supercilious scowl. "What an utterly ridiculous notion, Inspector. Do leave the deducing games to the experts, there's a good fellow." The condescension would have been far more effective, in Lestrade's opinion, had Sherlock not been stuck in a too-big, puce-hued hospital gown, defiantly cuddling a fun-sized version of his flatmate under one arm and a rainbow parrot under the other.

He briefly debated the wisdom of saying so, and decided he would prefer to die another day.

"Are they keeping you overnight, then?"

"I should like to see them try," Sherlock snorted. "There is nothing wrong with me, Lestrade."

"Other than the fact that you've still got a dilated eye, and a few cracked ribs, and an hysterical little boy who's not going to easily let you out of his sight for the next few days?"

"That bad, eh?" Sherlock murmured with a sigh.

"Bit not good at least, I'll tell you that." Lestrade dropped into the vacated chair and leaned back, legs crossed. "How do you plan to proceed, knowing that any day now, the kid could change back?"

* * *

><p>His question was met with a look of half-concussed dismay.<p>

"According to your brother, you may not have much warning. He could wake up tomorrow his adult self, or it could be New Year's before he changes - we don't know, but apparently he's not going to age gradually like they thought. I just..." he paused, and then continued delicately. "I know it will be a shock for you, Sherlock, and I just want you to know there's nothing wrong with being...upset, a bit, that he's going to be changing back."

A look of surprise flared in Sherlock's icy eyes, before fading into a cautious deliberation. "I shall be more relieved than anything else, Inspector," he stated loftily. "Child-rearing is not and will never be my vocation of choice, now or ever."

"Right." Lestrade crossed his arms, leaning back in a relaxed posture. "Then you're not reluctant to see him regress?"

"Not in the least. I am unaccustomed to caring overmuch for my own needs, much less a small person's."

"And you're not going to miss the kid, even just a tiny bit?"

Sherlock's chin jutted out defiantly. "To do so would imply I was enjoying this task to begin with, Lestrade. I most certainly have not been fond of child-minding due to an inexcusably doltish oversight of my brother's."

* * *

><p>Lestrade looked pointedly at the way John was snuggling up to his protector even in sleep. Sherlock's ear-tips flushed a pale pink. "I could hardly deny him the childhood he deserved but never received," he muttered gracelessly, fidgeting with the cheap hospital-issue coverlet.<p>

"Never said you should," Lestrade answered mildly. "And I never said you should go to pieces over this development either - just that it would be perfectly normal to be a bit upset. God knows I'm going to miss the little beggar something terrible, even if I'll be pleased to see John of legal drinking age again. He's an adorable little boy, but I miss being able to have a coherent adult conversation."

"A mutual sentiment, I assure you," Sherlock murmured.

The child in question gave a tiny yawn, fingers flexing in the thin coverlet, and the detective unconsciously tightened his grip on the boy.

"Yes, well," Lestrade coughed. "I'll see what I can do about springing you, if you can promise me you'll not be an idiot about things if you get to go home, eh? No running about and chasing after John, not with those banged-up ribs."

"Tell that to the hyperactive monkey I live with," Sherlock responded dryly, indicating the snoozing bundle of blanket and exhausted child which drowsed next to him on the bed.

* * *

><p>"I assure you, Lestrade," the detective added wearily, eyes sliding half-closed, "that I have no grander plans at the moment than to set things in order for John's retransformation, and to sleep off this headache."<p>

"Subtle hint, eh." The DI smiled, and stood to leave. He wriggled a mobile phone carefully out of the sleeping child's side pocket, and placed it on the table beside Sherlock. "Here's your mobile. Call me if you need something, all right?"

"Yes, yes." A languid hand waved him away with clear dismissal. "Do your best to keep those infernal nurses from flapping about for a few hours, would you?"

Lestrade nodded, pulling the door nearly closed behind him.

Donovan was waiting for him, a rms crossed as she leaned against the wall across from the doorway. "Well?" she asked, worriedly.

"He seems to be taking it well enough - and I daresay I would too, if I'd been saddled with a toddler unexpectedly for five months," he mused.

"Still..."

"Still," he agreed, casting one fond glance back into the room and its occupants. Sherlock was propped up on a pillow and the stuffed parrot, busily tap-tapping away at his mobile and occasionally casting a glance or a small smile down at his tiny sleeping companion. "I think we're _all_ going to miss the kid pretty bad."


	11. Chapter 11

**Title**: Interlude (65-71/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 7x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Sherlock recovers at home for twenty-four hours, and then realises he might as well not even try to extend his recovery - because what five-year-old is going to let him lie abed on Christmas Eve? 

* * *

><p>Sherlock decided recovering in bed was not an entirely dismal thing. Even six months ago, he would have been climbing the walls by this time, driving Mrs. Hudson and John to utter madness with his boredom-induced antics. But becoming child-minder to a rambunctious toddler had since proven to him the invaluable commodity which was peace-and-quiet, and where before he would have been displeased at being bed-bound he now reveled in it.<p>

Current John was, however, unimpressed that he spent so much time sleeping, and finally voiced his displeasure on the coldest Christmas Eve in years.

Voiced, meaning Sherlock was awakened at the ungodly hour of half-past seven by a small finger poking him repeatedly in the nose.

"Sherlock," his tiny flatmate hissed in the loudest of stage-whispers.

"Nngh," he muttered, flopping grandly over into the opposite pillow.

A small body then scrambled over him, kneeing him in the kidney. He fervently wished that his attending physician had not taken a knowing look at his medical history and then prescribed a sub-standard painkiller.

"Sherlock." A tug on his hair, which he ignored. "Sherlock, is Christmas Eve!"

It could have been Doomsday, for all he cared. He swatted the tiny hand away, only succeeding in producing a giggle next to his ear.

Then the accursed little monster decided to _bounce_ on his back.

* * *

><p>"Hurrrkk," he managed in a strangled voice, as a child-sized mass bounced eagerly on the blanket-covered lump which was his vital organs. "You are a horrible little boy," he added, half into the pillow.<p>

The infernal little one only laughed, and rolled off him to flop onto the bed, arms waving aimlessly in the air. "Waffles," was the next nonsensical statement, and he rolled over to look at the beaming child.

"What?"

"Mrs. Hudson iss making special Christmas waffles!" John's eyes shone like blue fairy-lights in his excitement.

His half-asleep brain conjured up a ghastly green waffle with red topping, which he rejected immediately as something their sensible landlady would never dream of trying except as a method of revenge on him (and he had done nothing lately to warrant such).

"Is she now." He closed his eyes again, yanking the blanket up to his nose. "Good on her, then."

"Sherloooooock!" He did not need to see the pout to know it was present, but he refused to yield; never let it be said he could be swayed by a child barely old enough to write his name.

"Go away, you," he growled, tossing the other end of the blanket up over John's tousled head.

The child giggled, yanking the fabric off his messy curls, and gave the bed another bounce.

* * *

><p>"Sherlooooock!"<p>

He ignored the pleading tone, because it was far too early to have so much energy. Wherever had the adult John picked up the habit of sleeping late, he was unsure, but he had never been so grateful.

"I haf to wrap my presents an' Mrs. Hudson said I can't have a scissors 'nless you watch me!"

He winced, remembering the evening when, exasperated, he'd sent John to the child's craft-table in the corner, armed with a sculpting knife and a block of styrofoam.

Mrs. Hudson had been Not Happy, both with the tiny bits of foam strewn across a three-foot-square area of carpeting, and also with the fact that apparently children - even brilliant ones - were not supposed to be in possession of sharp objects without direct supervision, and then only sparingly.

Evidently his own childhood, spent stealing Mycroft's tools and taking apart everything he could by age six, had been atypical and slightly dangerous.

_Thump. Thump._ John was smacking him on the head now with his Paddington Bear. _Thump_.

John was just a child, he reminded himself, and society frowned slightly upon guardians flinging children bodily into the next room.

"Sherlock!" An earsplitting bellow directly in his ear made him shoot upright, heart racing.

John's muffled laughter greeted him as the child fell backward, clutching his bear.

* * *

><p>"John Hamish, I can still return all of your Christmas gifts to the store," he threatened, though not even half-heartedly, for it would take more of an iron heart than his to withstand the adoring gaze fixed upon him. "Every. Single. One."<p>

Blue eyes widened.

"And do you know what else I can do?"

John shook his head, clutching his bear protectively.

"This!" he crowed, and pounced, blanket in hand. John shrieked and wriggled, but to no avail, and soon was wrapped up in the blanket, bear and all. "Hmm, what have I here," Sherlock mused loudly, hefting the bundle to one shoulder (carefully, as his bound ribs protested the movement). "A John-burrito, I do believe."

Half upside-down, John hiccoughed and giggled. "Sherloooock!" he whined, banging feebly on the detective's shoulder with his one loose hand (Sherlock had been careful to not trap the child completely, as he was not about to trigger an attack). "Lemme go, Sherlock!"

"No," he replied cheerfully, shoving his feet into slippers.

"But I don' wanna be a burrito!"

Sherlock ruffled the mop of hair which peeked out of the top of the blanket roll. "Then you should have thought about that before you dropped your obnoxious person on top of me at this ridiculous hour, little soldier mine."

"I not 'noxious," John grumbled, scowling blackly.

* * *

><p>Sherlock begged to differ, and that opinion only grew as Christmas Eve progressed. The arrival of a large box from "Uncle Myke," into which John tore eagerly before Sherlock could snatch it out of reach to save, only confirmed that while he would miss the child-version of his flatmate, he would be much relieved to again live with one who was not quite so...hyperactive, he believed the websites called it.<p>

Mycroft's box contained a pirate sword and hat, much to his surprise (he'd thought his brother had been doing anything but paying attention when he was a little boy), as well as a child's spy kit from Wilkins, consisting of a pair of sunglasses with a built-in video camera, an invisible ink pen, a book about ciphers, a DVD season of some low-budget telly called _The Man from UNCLE_, and a surprisingly realistic plastic gun. The last, Sherlock did not think wise to encourage the child with, but by that point John was starry-eyed with wonder and it would be easier to take honey from an enraged bee-swarm than extricate the fake weapon.

Wilkins was a dead man, he vowed darkly, after John experimentally tried what he presumed was supposed to be a karate chop to the back of his neck, as Sherlock sat boredly scrolling the internet on his Blackberry.

* * *

><p>He chased the little hellion upstairs and downstairs and into Mrs. Hudson's tolerant embrace, where he was then scolded for "not letting a little boy be a boy." John's smug smirk as he peeped out from under the woman's arms reinforced his dismay at realising he was outnumbered and outmaneuvered by experts in the field, and so he wisely retreated upstairs with his dignity still partially intact.<p>

John toddled upstairs an hour later, armed with an olive branch in the form of Christmas biscuits (one of which, he noted with amusement, was decorated like a skull holding a candy cane in its teeth).

"As if you need more sugar," he muttered, though he accepted the plate when John sternly ordered him to "eat, Sherlock!"

John beamed when he obeyed, and then snatched up his pirate sword and hat, proceeding to abandon his mentor in favor of setting up what looked like a plush animal blockade at one side of the room.

Sherlock shook his head and retreated to his room (with the plate of biscuits), taking the small reprieve as his opportunity to finish this hellish task the common people called wrapping Christmas gifts. Two shredded rolls of wrapping-paper and a ridiculous amount of cellotape later, he surveyed the results of his undertaking in the form of several extremely poorly-wrapped boxes.

* * *

><p>Obviously, his ancestral artistic talent had skipped a generation.<p>

No matter; John was going to unceremoniously tear into them anyway tomorrow morning. Sighing, he chucked the cellotape roll into a drawer (he had stepped on one last year, which had cured him completely of ever wishing to wrap gifts again) and walked back out into the lounge.

He was just in time to see a small blur careen into the room from the hall, brandishing a plastic sword at a level dangerous to anyone over three feet tall, bellowing "For Narniaaaa!" at the top of its not-unimpressive set of lungs. A streak of horrible red-and-gold sweater catapulted itself over the coffee table with a flying leap, and dove at the largest object in the barricade, which happened to be an inflatable whale John had earned as a reward for behaving during a shopping trip (mid-year bargain shelf, as it was far too cold for pool toys).

The toy deflated with a satisfying pop as the sword embedded itself in vinyl.

Small hands still clutching the sword buried in his improvised sea serpent, John looked up at his guardian's aghast expression with a feral grin.

"Sherlock can I have a kitty for Christmas?"

"Annnnd congratulations," Lestrade's voice drawled from the open hall doorway. "You've now succeeded in raising a miniature psychopath. Brilliant."


	12. Chapter 12

**Title**: Interlude (72-78/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 7x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Lestrade joins the Baker Street family for breakfast, has a serious talk with Sherlock, and receives his Christmas present from John.

**A/N:** Some people have been asking, so just a clarification: Remember this is AU from my planned plotline of A Messy Business and Never Too Late; in NTL John will be re-aging gradually rather than the insto-transformation we will see in this AU story. So you get the best of both worlds, imho. :)

* * *

><p>John's beaming smile lit up the room as he left the sword in his dying whale and hugged Lestrade around the knees. The DI laughed and staggered under the onslaught, noting Sherlock's as-yet unbrushed hair and dark-eyed glower.<p>

"Well now, kiddo, your landlady tells me you need to wrap some presents," he said, smiling down at the child.

John nodded, chin digging into kneecaps. "Sherlock wouldn' get _up_ an' Mrs. Hudson said I can't have a scissors by myself," he informed the man disconsolately, though Lestrade well knew those puppy-eyes were manipulation, expertly wielded.

"I am up _now_, you thankless little monster," Sherlock growled from behind the first morning paper.

John turned a worried look up at Lestrade. "Grumpy," the child whispered, cupping one hand around the word.

"Yes indeed," he chuckled, prying John's arms gently off his trouser legs. "I'll talk to him. You run along and help Mrs. Hudson with the breakfast, she's expecting you. Quick march, now!"

John flipped him a perfect military salute, which made both him and Sherlock stare at the child's retreating form for a few odd seconds afterward, and bolted from the room. Lestrade heard a clatter on the stairs, but waited until the door had slammed down below before turning back to his consultant/co-parent/this-is-already-awkward-why-make-it-more-so.

"You look like the undead, Sherlock," he said bluntly.

* * *

><p>"Any <em>other<em> stellar observations you would like to gift me this spectacularly dreary morning, Detective Inspector?"

"You really are the most impossible man in the world, other than that brother of yours," Lestrade informed him.

Sherlock ripped an article out and sat on it. "That is more statement of fact than observation," he replied, "though from you I daresay I should be pleased of the improvement, however slight. Have you a point to this, Lestrade, besides the usual maudlin holiday greetings?"

"You could call me Greg, you know," he said suddenly.

Slate-coloured eyes peeked with mild interest over the top of the advertisements.

"It's been long enough, after all, and John does," he pointed out. "I don't mind, if that's what you're worried about." One eyebrow inched up to hide under dark curls, and he laughed. "Right, yes, what was I thinking."

"I am quite certain I've no idea," Sherlock answered dryly. "The world is not yet prepared for such monumental leaps of logic."

"Well, someone's snarky this morning. What, they didn't give you enough of the happy pills?" Sherlock's grimaced, but shook his head. "Well, what then?" Lestrade demanded. "Rough night aside, you look like the world's about to end."

Sherlock's dark head jerked up at that, and Lestrade saw genuine sadness in the younger man's eyes. "Ohhh," he breathed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had never been thankful to have Detective Inspector Lestrade's company and conversation until today. After Lestrade's inhalation of recognition, Sherlock had braced himself for mild poking fun at his emotional state of mind - at his very real feeling of grief, like he was about to lose a loved one. Yes, after five months, he would be utterly thrilled to see John - adult John - again...and yet.<p>

And yet.

John as an infant had somehow, despite his vehement protestations, wormed his way with a child's charm so effectively into his heart it was nigh unbelievable. Baby-blue eyes and a mop of golden curls, impromptu sword-fights and tickling matches, trips to the British Museum and to the Aquarium, bedtime lullabies and drawings magneted to the fridge - his mental hard drive had saved so very many extraneous pieces of information about these five months, so many memories that he would never, ever want to delete.

To suddenly know that he had very little time left to make those memories, and would never have the opportunity again to do more than view them, was akin to being told one's software license was expired and not renewable. Any time now, tiny John Watson would be in read-only mode, and it surprised even Sherlock himself how much that thought upset his mental balance.

* * *

><p>But, to his surprise, Lestrade made no wisecracks about his mental state, and even had the grace to not mention it again. Sherlock was startled to receive only a gentle pat on the shoulder as Lestrade walked by to place a very small package on the mantel next to the skull. Its rectangular shape (obviously a cigarette pack) was clearly recognizable, and he sent the DI a disbelieving glance.<p>

"There's only one in there, I dumped the rest," Lestrade warned him, though with a knowing smile. "John will understand, I think."

The symbolism, and the shared knowledge that this would probably be a different kind of danger night, was not lost even on his admittedly less emotional mind. "Thank you, Inspector," he said at length, his tone weighted with sincerity.

Lestrade nodded, equally sincere. "Seriously though," he said, "when he changes back...if you need to, call me, eh?"

His reply was cut short by the wailing of the downstairs smoke detector, and they both exchanged looks of wary amusement.

Sherlock indicated the Christmas tree in the corner. They'd planned to decorate it yesterday, only to have those plans disrupted by Sherlock's accident. All of the ornaments and lights were apparently conglomerated on the bottom third of the tree.

Lestrade laughed as Sherlock explained dryly, "He is quite a helpful little boy."

* * *

><p>The tree looked utterly ridiculous, and yet charming - it had to have taken John hours while Sherlock was sleeping, and he had done it apparently without any help.<p>

Lestrade inspected a solitary strand of lights which was dangling off the branches about halfway up, and then turned quizzically to his consultant.

Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Apparently Mrs. Hudson caught him launching himself off the desk _at_ the tree," he said with a grimace. "She soon put a stop to his acrobatics, I assure you. I personally believe the concentration of decorations on the lower half is his way of protesting the restriction."

Lestrade laughed. "And you have the gingerbread house somewhere?" he asked mischievously.

"Mm?" Sherlock had gone back to his papers, now that the smoke alarm had turned itself off and there was no screaming from downstairs. "Oh, no - we blew it up, Lestrade," he said absently, tossing the sports section into the Delete pile on the floor.

"You...what."

"Really, Inspector, it is a simple enough chemistry lesson. John is quite proficient at destroying things when he applies himself."

Before Lestrade could inquire further (he was debating if he really wanted to know), the child in question barreled back into the room, hollering at the top of his lungs to summon them to breakfast.

* * *

><p>Breakfast was a cheerful affair, and a work-weary Lestrade appreciated the invitation as much as the extremely good meal itself. Plus, it afforded him the rare opportunity to see Sherlock doing something normal for once - a little creepy, but a fascinating experience.<p>

Sherlock only ate one dry waffle, boredly slapping a pat of butter on it and cutting it into methodically precise pieces before consuming them smallest-to-largest. Mrs. Hudson flitted about for ten minutes, before Sherlock caught her arm as she whipped by with another pitcher of juice and sternly ordered her to sit down and eat something. Lestrade hid a smile as he worked his way through a stack of plain waffles with a bit more syrup than any adult really should want to eat, while John sat beside Sherlock, alternately chattering about whatever occurred to his child-mind and dumping more blueberries and an unwholesome amount of whipped cream onto his own breakfast.

Sherlock caught a small sticky hand as it reached for the milk carton. "Both hands," he reminded the child, who wriggled up into his seat to reach more carefully.

"Innt waffles amazing?" John enthused, pouring himself another glass.

"_Aren't_. And swallow," Sherlock said mechanically. "Lestrade does not want you spewing half-chewed waffle into his coffee."

John grinned, and stuck out a tongue thoroughly stained with blueberries.

* * *

><p>Lestrade rose reluctantly. "I have to be getting to work, then. Mrs. Hudson - you are a marvelous cook; thank you."<p>

She smiled kindly. "You are welcome to come 'round anytime, Inspector, provided you do not cause unnecessary trouble in this house," she admonished severely.

He winced; the last 'drugs bust' had really been a bit over the top, "Yes, ma'am."

"Sherlooooock!" A child's whine drew his attention back to where John was wrestling with his exasperated guardian over cleaning his face with a damp tea-towel. "Aaaaaaah! Stop!"

"John Hamish Watson, you are not walking around all day with enough syrup on your face to attract an army of hummingbirds. Now. Sit. _Still_." The tone of voice obviously got the child's attention, because John only pouted until Sherlock finished.

"You _mean_," John mumbled, glaring indignantly from under his curls.

"Oh, hush," Sherlock retorted with an eye-roll, before hefting the child over one shoulder and letting him dangle upside-down. John shrieked with laughter, arms waving wildly, before he was swept upright at a speed which left his little eyes crossing momentarily. "Do you not have your Christmas gift to give Mr. Lestrade, John?" Sherlock prompted, and pushed him toward the refrigerator.

Lestrade laughed until he cried to see that it was a gingerbread crime scene, complete with gingerbread debris and scattered bodies.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title**: Interlude (79-84/?)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 6x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Lestrade helps John wrap his Christmas presents, and Sherlock is a bit loopy on painkillers.  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October. Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:** See all the illustrations for this 'verse via this plug post in my journal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please. 

* * *

><p>Despite all his protests, Sherlock was forced to lie down and rest for a few hours mid-day, as one does not simply spring back from a concussion and fractured ribs by sheer willpower alone. Lestrade, after serving his holiday half-day (perks of being the boss and not a minion), returned to Baker Street after luncheon to take a sugar-wired child off Sherlock's increasingly less-patient hands.<p>

Sherlock crashed onto the couch under a blanket before Lestrade had even removed his coat, and he was much amused to be dragged by the hand upstairs to John's bedroom. The child was bouncing with excitement, Sherlock obviously having given up on enforcing a nap today, and scarcely had Lestrade's boot-heels cleared the door but it was slammed and locked and John was dragging a chair over to block it.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Is all that really necessary, then?" he asked mildly.

John fixed him with a look that was so adult John, it made him shiver with anticipatory dread. "Sherlock _peeks_," the child said disdainfully, small arms crossed over his reindeer jumper. "'S why I not wrap anything until _today_."

"Well, that is very naughty of him," Lestrade said with a chuckle. "And I suppose you haven't done any peeking of your own, eh?"

John looked innocently at the ceiling, fidgeting with his buttons.

* * *

><p>He laughed and wisely dropped the subject. "What did you want my help with, then, wrapping and such?"<p>

John had flung himself under the bed and was squirreling out with a battered box overflowing with bows and what must be his Christmas presents. The little one gave it one last mighty shove and scrambled out after it, beaming up at Lestrade. "Yes please! I have trouble cutting," he said mournfully, eyeing the blunted child scissors Mrs. Hudson had obviously given him. "An' taping," he added as an afterthought. "An' tying ribbons."

Lestrade sat cross-legged on the floor, despite knowing he'd regret the activity later, and obediently took the scissors. "Shall I cut the paper and you wrap, then?" he asked. "And we can both do the trimming?"

John gave him such a worshipful smile it made his heart ache, knowing that in a few days, perhaps less, he would lose that forever. "Thank you!" The child scampered over to his iDock (yes, Sherlock, not spoiling the kid at all, not in the least) and pressed a button, filling the room with - of all things - Christmas violin music.

He raised an eyebrow at the wrapping paper he was snipping, but said nothing, until a few minutes later when John casually remarked, "Sherlock made this cd fo' me, innt it bee-yew-tiful?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock was never going to be the same, he thought with no little dismay, and he felt a pang of unexpected sadness at the thought - because frankly, the change had been both alarming and charming. Alarming, because the changes in Sherlock's erratic, somewhat irresponsible behavior were fairly drastic - and charming, because a toddler had melted Sherlock's icy relationships with the world, while years of association had only begun to thaw them. John had been the guiding light of Sherlock's life from the moment Fate had somehow brought them together - and this child version of the man had accomplished even more than that.<p>

Lestrade privately rather liked the new, more caring, more patient Sherlock, even if that affection and patience were primarily focused on child-John - and that change alone had done wonders for how his people at the Yard viewed his amateur consultant. John had in his five-year-old form completely won over people who had vowed to hate Sherlock forever; and he would miss that half-antagonistic camaraderie among the ranks when John reverted and Sherlock reverted with him.

He carefully hid these darker thoughts from showing on his face, however, and turned his full attention to the here and now.

Now being, John apparently doing his level best to tie his fingers into one present's large red bow.

* * *

><p>Two hours and several tangled rolls of cellotape later, Lestrade helped John cart an armful of presents down the stairs. The child had got each of his mentors a small gift and had added a drawing from the art set Sherlock had spoilt him with. (Lestrade privately had been much amused to see that Mycroft Holmes's gift consisted of a box of granola bars and a picture of a man fighting off three ninjas with an enormous umbrella).<p>

He had been given his own drawing with his gingerbread crime scene, which had caused mass giggles and jealousy among his subordinates that morning, and for the child's sake he hoped John would not change back until after his gifts were doled out, because otherwise the adult version of him would be highly embarrassed.

Sherlock was still snoring quietly with one arm flung dramatically over the arm of the couch as they entered (John on exaggerated tip-toe, covering his mouth so that his giggles would not wake his guardian), and they managed to put the presents under the tree without mishap.

Unfortunately, Lestrade was unaccustomed to navigating a room in which a child ruled supreme, and so it never occurred to him to watch for wheeled objects waiting in the shadows to send him sprawling, luckily onto the largest of John's Paddington Bears.

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke with a startled snort and flopped off the couch in a flail of afghan and blue dressing-gown, which elicited a fit of giggles from John, who had been peeking over the edge of the leather chair to check on his "Uncle Greg."<p>

The man in question picked himself up slowly with a groan, muttering that he was far too old for this kind of thing and besides, he hadn't been promised hazard pay. Sherlock grunted in pain as his wrapped ribs were jostled by the hard landing, and yanked the afghan off his head, glaring at the room in general for waking him after only an hour and a half.

"Honestly, is it too much to ask, Lestrade?" he snarled. Folding his arms onto the coffee table, heedless of the newspapers, he dropped his head onto them with a curse, muffled into the fabric of his sleeves. "Two hours, that was all I asked!"

"I can hardly be held responsible for the state of this room," Lestrade retorted, giving John a warning look. The child gulped guiltily and scrambled to pick up the rest of his model aeroplanes and army Jeeps which were scattered about underfoot. "Good thing for you he's going to change back soon, since I doubt the notion of _hoovering_ ever occurred to your superior brain!"

* * *

><p>Sherlock muttered something unintelligible then reluctantly dragged himself to his feet, before stumbling over and collapsing into his armchair with a grunt.<p>

"Thirsty," John remarked to no one in particular, as he drop-kicked a stuffed cat into the large box in the corner obviously designated for storage purpose.

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock muttered, eyes closed.

"Sherlock, if you've been letting that kid work with hot liquids unsupervised -"

The man jolted upright, finally fully awake. "No, definitely not! Habit, Inspector." He rubbed his eyes and stood, stretching cat-like. "John, did I not tell you to clean up your toys before going to bed last night?"

"Ummmmmm..."

"Yes or no?"

John bit his lip, and hopped from one foot to the other. "You was acting weird from the pills the doc-tor gave you..."

"I distinctly recall -"

"You said 'get those bloody tanks out from underfoot or so help me I will take back the kitten I got you fo' Christmas,'" John quoted with unmitigated glee, quite oblivious to the look of horror on Sherlock's face and the fact that Lestrade was strangling himself trying not to laugh. "You swore," he added helpfully.

Sherlock groaned, covering his face with his hands.

"Did you really mean you were gettin' me a kitty, Sherlock! Really an' truly?" John begged, eyes shining brightly.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title**: Interlude (85-90/100ish)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 6x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Sherlock gets John a kitten because of Reasons. And Lestrade becomes a hired man.  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October. Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:**See all the illustrations for this 'verse via this plug post in my journal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please.

**This Chapter AN:** There's a picture of the kitten on my LiveJournal page for this story; just follow the homepage link on my profile to get to my journal (**kcscribbler**).

* * *

><p>"Out," Lestrade said with a playful ruffle of John's tousled hair, as he forcibly scooted the child out the door. "Go tell Mrs. Hudson all about it, eh? Let Uncle Greg have a bit of a chat with Sherlock."<p>

"Okay!" John's delighted yells could be heard a moment later as he pounded down the stairs and back to Mrs. Hudson's apartment.

Lestrade turned to his sheepish consultant, arms folded. "You got him a cat."

"Best see a specialist about those hearing aids, Lestrade, if you could not deduce as much from that conversation," Sherlock snipped waspishly, now that John was safely out of earshot. He felt the beginnings of a headache approaching.

"You got the kid a _cat_." Lestrade's earnest eyes were wide with amused horror. "A _cat_, in this house, Sherlock. Are you mad?"

"He told me once that he asked for one every year and never received one, Lestrade," Sherlock shot back. "Would you have me deny him that much on the one chance he has to have a happier childhood?"

"Sherlock, it's...quite nice, really...but what on earth are you going to do with it once he changes back?"

Sherlock froze, eyes blinking owlishly. "I...had not thought that far ahead," he admitted, dismay washing over him.

"Please tell me you thought far enough ahead to buy a kitty-litter box."

* * *

><p>"Er..."<p>

"The things I do for you and that brat downstairs," Lestrade said with a fatherly sigh, buttoning his coat. "Did you get _anything_ besides the cat, Sherlock?"

"The woman at the breeder's told me what food to purchase?" Sherlock flopped gingerly onto the couch. "I was to go pick the animal up tonight -"

"You'll do nothing of the kind," Lestrade warned. "Unless you want to be flat on your back for the rest of the hols. D'you think John will be happy about that once he changes back?"

Sherlock scowled, looking much like a child himself, and the DI smothered a grin. "Wait, you're to pick it up at a breeder's? What sort of cat are we talking about here, Sherlock?" he asked, afraid to know the price.

Sherlock wearily hauled his phone out from his pocket and, after clicking through the menu, held it over his head and backward so that Lestrade could see.

"Scottish fold," Sherlock recited in a tone of immeasurable boredom. "Good-natured, independent, very loving, highly adaptable to change both in environment and household personnel. Typically tend to choose one human to bond with and remain loyally affectionate to that person for life."

Lestrade stopped trying to hide his widening grin, because Sherlock had just described the man the kitten's soon-to-be owner would shortly become.

* * *

><p>He coughed discreetly. "Did you pick it because it's <em>cute<em>, Sherlock, or because you think its characteristics sound vaguely familiar?"

Sherlock's mobile suddenly became extremely absorbing, evidently.

"Or is it because it's the exact colour of that horrible tan jumper of his?"

"Shut up, Lestrade. Haven't your minions burned down your office by now or something?"

Lestrade could see Sherlock's ear-tips turning a bright pink under his tangled hair, and he knew well enough by now when not to push it. "I'll just head out to do your shopping then, eh?"

Sherlock's long, pale neck craned over the couch-arm to look at him. "Since when do you do my shopping, Inspector?" he asked haughtily.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? That brother of yours paid me double my holiday pay to make sure you don't kill John before he changes back." Concealing his amusement at Sherlock's rude gesture and moan of dismay, Lestrade donned his gloves again. "So where's the address of this cat breeder?"

His phone chirped before he could even finish the question, and Sherlock silently pointed at the mobile. "Right then. Litter box, litter scoop, air freshener, kitten food, water and food bowls, toys, scratching post. Unless you'd prefer it claw your dressing gown to shreds?" he asked dryly, when Sherlock looked dumbfounded at the list of caring-for-your-kitten basics.

* * *

><p>Lestrade's phone chirped before he'd got halfway down the street, collar up against the rainsnow mix.

_I am going to regret this, am I not._

He chuckled and fired off a quick reply, fumbling a bit momentarily due to his gloves. _Most likely. But if you ever do anything to endanger that animal I will vivisect you._

_Is my brother also paying you to read the thesaurus?_

_Wouldn't mind if he did. Need anything else before the shops close for the holiday?_

_Not that I caaohoieubhk2ksd _

_hiiiiiiiiiiii _:)))))

Lestrade blinked.

_Sherlock?_

(~O_O)~ ~(O_O~)

He stared at the tiny screen in some bewilderment. Did Sherlock even know emoticons existed? Somehow he couldn't see the man not deleting that genre of texting, for it was hardly worth of a shelf in his mind palace.

_What happened, Sherlock?_

_*John* happened, Inspector. Why did I permit you to release me from hospital?_

He laughed, startling an innocent passer-by who gave him a sidelong glance as she scurried through the drizzle. _I see. Well, do you need anything else?_

_Tranquillisers. _

_As many as they will let you have._

A short pause.

_PLEASE._

Arriving at the warmly-lit Boots (ten minutes closer than Sainsbury's, and why shouldn't he spend Mycroft Holmes's blood money to save himself the walk), he fired off another message before entering the holiday bedlam.

* * *

><p><em>If you hadn't nicked my identification when I got to Baker Street, I might be able to. Unfortunately...you see my dilemma.<em>

_I hate you. Loathe, abhor, detest, despise, abominate, execrate, and disrelish. All of the above._

_Are you mocking my thesaurus-reading, or trying to come up with names for the kitten?_

_I will triple whatever Mycroft is paying you if you will shut up. _

_I'll be sure to pass that along._

Lestrade wasn't quite sure how Sherlock managed to get German swear words past the spell-check, but apparently the man could. Why should he have been surprised.

Three hours later, at the end of which he was debating the elder Holmes's payment being equal compensation for effort and patience, he stumbled up the steps of 221B with a carrier containing a squalling kitten.

Sherlock had evidently heard the piercing yowls, because he came scooting out the lounge door (as fast as his strained ribs would allow) before Lestrade had cleared the twelfth step, closing it noiselessly behind him.

"Finally fell asleep after twenty minutes of Christmas carols," he muttered by way of explanation, nodding to the closed door. "Twenty. Minutes. Of ghastly holiday pop music." Arms folded, he glared at Lestrade, who was trying his best not to crack and just tell Sherlock how outrageously _cute_ he was as a babysitter.

* * *

><p>"Twenty. Minutes."<p>

"You're a good man, Sherlock."

"Unfortunately," the younger man said with a martyred sigh. Have you the rest?"

"Sent ahead; would have been delivered about an hour ago."

"I was engaged in a resoundingly unrealistic film involving barely-believable characters in outrageous costumes teaching children the dubious values of make-believe over the world of hard science," Sherlock snapped sourly. "Was it you or _Aunt Sally_ that introduced him to the 'wizarding world of Harry Potter'?"

"Ah...Anderson, actually..."

"Of course; that makes _complete_ sense." Sherlock's sarcastic nod was sharp enough to make Lestrade, a (nearly) innocent bystander, cringe. "The man can barely hold his own in _this_ world, and so he decides to mentally escape into another where science plays a dubious role at best - corrupting my flatmate in the process."

"Sherlock, really." He set the cat carrier down, amid a rumble of disapproval from the kitten inside. "It's basic children's culture; I don't see how you can justify hating it."

"You're not the one who has had a hyperactive five-year-old crawling about for the last half-hour yelling 'Accio John's Christmas presents!' at the top of his highly-developed lungs," Sherlock pointed out dryly.

Lestrade swallowed a laugh. "Well, good news is that he won't be five for much longer," he offered. "Has he shown any other signs of changing back?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat gingerly on the steps, wrapping an arm around his ribcage. "Only minute indications," he sighed. "Nothing concrete, nothing anyone else could observe. But I believe it will be soon. Possibly tonight, possibly Boxing Day...possibly not until the New Year. We have no data with which to predict."<p>

"Mycroft said the same," he agreed. "John's going to get some massive compensation from the government, you know."

"He had better," Sherlock snapped, with a flash of hitherto unseen anger. "It's been _six months_, six months of his life he's lost thanks to my brother's incompetence."

"And six months you've been without your friend and blogger," Lestrade pointed out with careful gentleness. "And personal assistant, and grocery shopper, and bodyguard, and -"

Sherlock's dry chuckle interrupted him, but the sound was highly welcome. "I must say I look forward to a breakfast conversation which does not revolve around the dubious merits of jam versus marmalade, or how many Choco Puffs he can fit in his mouth simultaneously."

"You do know...you've probably been a better parent than he had growing up, yeah?"

Sherlock's grey gaze was far away. "I do hope so, Lestrade," he said wistfully.

"There's no doubt about it," the DI said firmly, and extended a hand to help his consultant/sort-of-friend/who-knew off the stairs. "John's been a very lucky little boy."


	15. Chapter 15

**Title**: Interlude (92-99/110ish)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 8x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Lestrade _officially _becomes a hired man, and Mrs. Hudson opens John's present to her.

**A/N1:** Just wrapping this one up now, everyone. I will follow through the change and its aftermath (and hopefully satisfy us all), but don't forget that Never Too Late will still follow John through a more gradual change back to his adult self. You don't have to say goodbye just yet. :)

**A/N2:** Just so you can be looking, we're 188 reviews for this little thing; the 200th reviewer for this will get to choose a scene for me to write in this format, set in this 'verse, so be watching for that 200th review. :)

* * *

><p>Lestrade carefully carried the sleeping child up to his bed, as Sherlock was unable to lift anything heavy. John yawned and rolled over without waking, snuggling up against one of the numerous plush animals Sherlock had spoilt him with. The DI backed out of the room quietly and shutting the door.<p>

"Why's he sleeping in one of his old shirts?" he inquired curiously upon re-entering the lounge.

"Precautionary measures," Sherlock replied, haphazardly cramming a box of jelly babies into what had to be the largest stocking Lestrade had ever seen. John could probably fit _himself_ in it. "If he changes back whilst sleeping, the clothing does not change with him. I have no wish for him to strangle himself should he revert when I am not present."

Lestrade nodded. "Sherlock, don't overdo it," he then ventured cautiously, because John was likely to be overwhelmed tomorrow. "You don't think he's going to love you more just because you got him an iPod Touch?"

Sherlock gave him a venomous look, and he wisely dropped the subject.

"Right, I'll just be getting along, then," he said, buttoning his coat. "Have a Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

"Mmf," Sherlock grunted without looking up, waving him away with one hand.

To his surprise (he'd never expected a reply), he wasn't halfway to the corner when his mobile beeped.

* * *

><p><em>Happy Christmas, Greg. And thank you.<em>

Lestrade stared at the phone for a minute, wondering if the sleet was distorting the words on the screen, and then grinned. John Watson had accomplished far more in his little world as a child than he had as an adult, and he couldn't find it in himself to be sorry.

Still smiling, he turned his coat-collar up against the icy sleet and set off toward the Baker Street tube station, wishing the shops were still open so he could get a coffee.

A long black car pulled up beside him, and a figure appeared out of its dark depths, umbrella going up against the wet. Lestrade scurried eagerly under its shelter, because only an idiot looks a gift horse in the mouth when said idiot is already half-frozen.

"Didn't realise the perks of this job," he said by way of starting conversation, as they settled into the backseat of the car.

Mycroft delicately shook droplets off the umbrella and handed it up to the driver. "Are you still debating my offer, then?"

"I'm not about to become your hired stooge just to spy on your brother," he retorted, hackles raised. "You want to know if he's sick or something, I'm happy to tell you - you don't have to insult me with a bribe."

* * *

><p>"And why me?" he continued, arms folded. "Why all of a sudden go from asking me to check up on him occasionally to offering me money to full-out keep track of him on a regular basis for you? Don't you have little minions to do that or something?"<p>

He probably should have been a little less belligerent, but at least the elder Holmes looked more amused than anything else.

"On the contrary, Detective Inspector; until six months ago, I had John Watson to do that."

"No way is that true," Lestrade said bluntly. "John wouldn't be a hired man for anyone."

"No," Mycroft agreed pensively. "He did it because, for reasons only he is fully capable of understanding, he truly did and does care about Sherlock. Imprudent, really, as he could use the money; but who am I to argue against a man's personal scruples, however foolish they are."

"But John's getting ready to change back; you don't need me anymore," Lestrade said, although he wondered privately why the idea bothered him so much. It had been a bit nice, being treated as an equal pseudo-parent by Sherlock instead of everyone-else-is-secondary-to-John.

He also wondered privately if the elder Holmes could read minds, because the look on the man's face was far too knowing as he spoke again, his voice carefully bland.

* * *

><p>Mycroft actually looked pained for a moment before the cringe was carefully smoothed away under a veneer of urbane polish. "I rather think, Detective Inspector, that John will be...shall we say, rather annoyed with me, once he reverts and realises he has lost six months of his life to the machinations of my over-zealous scientists."<p>

"Ah...right. Yes, I suppose he will." Lestrade grinned, though he made a mental note to look up the word _machinations_ later. "You're in a bit of a spot, then, aren't you?"

"Indeed."

Lestrade's phone beeped again. "Half a mo'," he said by way of not-really-apology, and pulled the mobile out.

_What is traditional for a child, presents before or after breakfast?_

He raised an eyebrow and tapped out a quick reply. _Stocking, then breakfast, then presents, in our house at least. I've really no idea. Btw your brother is offering me money to spy on you._

The response was nearly instantaneous. _Take it with my blessing. He'll leave John alone then._

"Urgent business?" Mycroft drawled, eyeing him with a knowing intensity that made his skin crawl.

"Mm," he hummed non-committally and sent off an answer. "Sorry about that. Go on, then, sir; tell me more about this proposal of yours. Never let it be said I took it upon myself to argue with a Holmes brother."

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson was an early riser, as any busy woman must be. In her day, a household was dependent upon the efficiency of the woman in charge of the day's tasks, and even more so now her bad hip effected a poorer sleep schedule, she was usually up well before either of her boys were.<p>

However, this chilly Christmas morning she had barely dressed for the day and was heating up the stove (Sherlock, bless his dear little heart, had said he would make breakfast for himself and John but she did not trust his baking skills one hundredth as much as his deducing), when a small knock on her door drew her from the warm kitchen into the chillier hall.

"Young man, what are you doing running about the house with no slippers?" she scolded, seeing the little boy standing there, hopping excitedly back and forth on bare feet. "And where is Sherlock, love?"

"Asleep," John said in a loud stage whisper. "On the couch," he added, bouncing up and down with an energy she would have given anything to have again.

Poor dear had probably fallen asleep before he could make it to his bed, exhausted. She probably had better go up and make sure he was not over-exerting himself.

"An' there's presents _everywhere_!" John nattered on, eyes bulging.

* * *

><p>"Ahh, so you'll be wanting yours for Sherlock then, dear?" She smiled at the bright-eyed nod, and shooed John into the hall. "Socks, young man - second shelf in the closet there. I'll fetch your presents."<p>

John dove into the closet and rummaged for holiday socks, emerging a moment later with a pair of green-and-red-striped ones with jingling bells on the toes. Wriggling into them with remarkable speed, he was soon up again, meeting her halfway as she returned from where she'd hidden John's presents.

"There you are, dear," she said with a motherly pat to his sleep-tousled head. "But don't you think we should let Sherlock have a bit of a lie-in, since he was up all night getting Christmas ready?" Since John had decried weeks ago that he had no need of Father Christmas since he had Sherlock, they had not bothered to correct that assumption.

John bit his lip uncertainly as childish excitement warred against affection for his guardian. "Okay," he said finally, his sweet nature winning out over natural selfishness; it did her heart good to see. "He's tired all the time, seems like," the little one continued with just the hint of a pout.

"He's been injured, dear, remember. And let me tell you, it is not easy keeping up with such an energetic little boy!"

* * *

><p>John smiled crookedly at that, and set all but one of his presents carefully on the hall table. Then he toddled over to her and handed her one wrapped with a silver bow rather than gold like the others.<p>

"For you," he said shyly, fidgeting with the hem of the jumper he'd pulled on over pyjama pants. "You thought they was all for Sherlock!" he added with an impish grin.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "So I did - you are very devious, young man!"

"Issat good?"

"Yes, dear, it is." She sat down on a low chair (no crouching for her, unfortunately) so as to be on eye level. "Shall I open it now, then?"

John shrugged and picked at a loose string on his jumper. Still smiling, she slit the cellotape, then unwound a thick strip of protective bubble-wrap.

"Aunt Sally help-ted me pick out the frame," John said suddenly as it came into view. He edged closer to her knees and pointed. "An' Uncle Greg help-ted me find the pictures."

The frame held a set of four square photographs of Sherlock and his small companion. One was of John kneeling on Sherlock's lap as a toddler, something dark and sticky smeared all over his face and a small fingerprint on Sherlock's nose as he laughed and drew his hand back.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's eyes were crossed, trying to see what John had just done; she remembered the scene but had no recollection of Sherlock's brother taking the photo. The second picture, John was about four, holding onto Sherlock's hand and splashing into a puddle with his little Wellies as they walked away from a crime scene. The third was a very old picture, one she had taken herself on Sherlock's mobile once when she went up to check on them; Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch with a snoozing baby curled up on his chest, tucked safely underneath protective arms. The fourth picture was more recent, one which that nice young man from Scotland Yard had to have taken, of Sherlock sitting in his armchair, typing on his laptop, while John had climbed onto the back of it and was now leaning over Sherlock's shoulder, both their smiling faces lit in a ghostly blue-white glow.<p>

They are perfect snapshot memories, and she tears up a bit realising that it is the best gift they could have given her, to remember this small tornado of energy and sunshine that had transformed their household in the last half-year. While she was looking forward to seeing adult John again, she would certainly miss the childish love and joy that came easily from this little boy.


	16. Chapter 16

**Title**: Interlude (100-109/120ish)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 10x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> John uses his new iPod to play Angry Birds, and Sherlock decides a kitten is the lesser evil  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October. Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.

**A/N2:** John's kitty can be seen at the corresponding LJ entry on my LiveJournal. 

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Hudson?" John's worried blue eyes blinked up at her. "Is not s'posed to be sad!"<p>

"It isn't, dear," she said, smiling down at his concerned face. They moved into the warm kitchen. She stood the photo in a place of honor until she could get Sherlock to hang it on the wall. "It's lovely, and you did all the hard work yourself, too!" The crooked edges of the photos attested as much, as did the smudge of ink in one corner.

"Yup!" John popped the _p_ with a flourish, and sneaked a biscuit from the ever-filled jar. "Sherlock said you'd wan' pictures instead'f somethin' like a blanket?"

She smiled at the skeptical little snub nose. "And Sherlock is always right, isn't he, dear?"

"Not when he said popcorn hassta stay in the mic-er-wave for five minutes," John mumbled around a mouthful of biscuit. "Blaugh!"

A thud from upstairs punctuated the child's expressive grimace, and Mrs. Hudson shooed him toward the door with a motherly pat. John snatched his presents off the table and scooted off down the hallway with a belated bellow of thanks, half a biscuit still held firmly between his teeth.

Mrs. Hudson watched to see he did not trip and break his little neck, and then returned to the kitchen to begin making a child's dream breakfast.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes had slept heavily, for all that it was an uncomfortable couch, most likely from exhaustion and the painkiller he suspected Lestrade had slipped into his coffee before leaving the night before. However, given that he felt more rested than he had in days, he could not truly be angry with the DI's presumption (and besides, if Lestrade was going to take up the mantel of First-Defense-Against-Mycroft he must be nicer to the man). He flicked the radio on as he passed on his way to the kitchen, knowing if he did not choose a Christmas music station John would (heaven forbid).<p>

Hot cocoa he could manage, by now in his child-minding career (it was hard to mess up powdered mixes), and did, intending to wake John up and set the child to opening his stocking while he showered and dressed.

He was unprepared for said child to come barreling through the door with two armfuls of Christmas presents, whooping as he smelled the cocoa. He had to smile at the sight of his small flatmate in garish, jingling Christmas socks (already been to see Mrs. Hudson, then...ah, no doubt she had been hiding his presents so Sherlock could not guess their contents) and a hideous monstrosity of red-and-gold jumper with little gold reindeer sequined across the front and back.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!" Presents scattered as he was subjected to an octopus-like hug around the knees. He caught the lip of the counter to prevent cocoa spillage. John's little face was wreathed in smiles as he looked up, chin digging into Sherlock's leg. "Is Christmas!"<p>

"So it is," he murmured, gently disengaging the small arms and distributing a whipped-cream-topped mug. "Careful, it is still a bit hot," he cautioned, when John raised it. "I was going to let it cool and fetch you; don't come crying if you burn your mouth after I've warned you accordingly." John stuck his tongue out, a dollop of cream on its tip, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Go on, then," he sighed. "Stocking first, while I go wash up. And mind you use a coaster on the coffee table!" he shouted after the small figure tearing excitedly through the kitchen.

John, already rummaging through the stocking, ignored him other than a little wave, and so he snatched his bathrobe and headed for the shower. Luckily, he was able to perform his necessary routine and re-strap his ribs without being forced to call Mrs. Hudson for aid (never in a hundred years), though it was quite painful. He found himself wishing more enthusiastically for John to change back soon; he'd forgotten how useful a live-in physician could be.

* * *

><p>By the time he returned, refreshed and awake, John had, unsurprisingly, worked his way through his stocking with the manic enthusiasm of childhood and was currently sitting in the midst of various piles of small toys, candy, and other goodies, staring wide-eyed about him at the sheer enormity of his plunder.<p>

"To your liking, I assume," Sherlock observed dryly, seeing the child's chocolate-smudged mouth and the plastic wrapping and wire twists scattered around, indicating that John had not waited to play with his toy figures.

But the child looked a bit sad, he noticed with surprise, as John picked himself up off the floor, snatching a new stuffed cat on the way, and came over to him.

"Is something wrong, John?" he asked, thinking frantically whether or not he'd forgotten something vital in this tradition of a child's Christmas.

"You don' have one," John said, frowning at his limp stocking and then looking back from it up at Sherlock's mystified face. "Is not fair."

He chuckled, and tapped the child on his button nose. "It is perfectly fair; stockings are special things just for adults to give to their children. Besides," he continued, when the child scowled in disagreement, "what use would I have for toy cars and a pound of those horrible little lumps of gelatinous sugar-mix called jelly babies?"

* * *

><p>John squinted up at him, pondering this. "Am I your child, Sherlock?" he then asked, looking slightly puzzled. "'Cause I don' call you Da or somefing. Is rude," he added helpfully, making Sherlock smile despite the awkwardness.<p>

"I am simply your guardian, not your father, John." He scooped the little one up, tickling him and shaking a giggle free, and held him up in front of the mirror. "We do not look at all alike, do you see?"

A chubby hand reached out and mischievously tugged on his curls, coming away still slightly-damp from Sherlock's shower. "Eww," the child said, scowling at the thin film and then wiping it roughly across his jumper. "Why you put product in your hair, Sherlock?"

He froze, because the wording was so familiar that it gave him chills. This had been happening more and more in the last forty-eight hours; John would say things, use words and phraseology that only an adult would - only _that_ adult would - and it was eerie, coming from the mouth of a five-year-old.

John did not appear to notice his dismay, or the way his grip on the small body in his arms had tightened, for he only wriggled impatiently to be put down as Mrs. Hudson entered, an inquiring "Woo-hoo!" alerting them to a truly spectacular breakfast.

* * *

><p>John was suitably impressed with his stash of presents, which included an enormous set of Lego blocks, a Harry Potter boxed set, an art kit which had set him (namely, Mycroft's credit card) back a good fifty pounds but was worth it as John would probably still use most of it upon reverting in age, a new jumper with matching scarf and mittens, and the aforementioned and Lestrade-critiqued iPod Touch.<p>

The latter had been Sherlock's original plan for John's Christmas gift ever since his friend's first-generation iPod had been crushed beyond repair during their street brawl with a drug ring a few weeks before his transformation into a second childhood. John had laughed it off, saying the thing was just yet another of Harry's electronic rejects, but Sherlock knew the loss had stung despite the item being several years old and in a now-constant state of low charge. John would hardly accept reimbursement from Sherlock (pity it had been a police case, not one from a client wealthy enough he could put the loss on an expense report), for he had his pride, and so Sherlock had made plans to replace the item for Christmas, so that John could putter around the flat and ride the Tube, listening to those atrociously twee ballads he favored along with the occasional audio book.

* * *

><p>Granted, his flatmate was not currently listening to music but rather playing Angry Birds (how he had managed to learn the game in fifteen seconds, Sherlock had no idea) with a single-minded concentration, but it was a gift John would still be pleased to have when he ceased being five.<p>

However, after the thousandth _wheeeeeeeeeee_ in less than three minutes, he confiscated the instrument of torture, cursing Lestrade's obviously better (at least child-smarter) judgment.

John's indignant "Oi!" promptly turned into a silent exclamation of hopeful wonder when a high-pitched mew sounded from beyond Sherlock's closed bedroom door.

"Sherlock! Sherlock listen!"

"Mm," he replied with affected distraction, inwardly smirking. He deactivated and password-protected the internet settings on the iPod and then made sure to turn off the one-click payment option in iTunes, as he doubted Mycroft would appreciate his credit card having a hundred tiny charges.

"Sherlock!" John's voice had reached a fever pitch as he earnestly tugged on his mentor's trouser leg. "SherlockIheardakitty!"

"Hm?" He spared the eager face a cursory glance, before returning his attention to the device. "Don't be silly, John."

A small hand thumped him roundly in the side of the kneecap, making him stagger and curse John's instincts. "Not silly! I heard a kitty!" the child insisted, trying to drag him in the direction of the bedroom.

* * *

><p>Rule three of the six Sherlock had set up when John became old enough to understand Good and Bad had been that Sherlock's bedroom was off-limits if the door was shut; after being forced to child-proof Baker Street he needed a sanctuary for his chemical experiments and other dangerous objects. John had never disobeyed, and Sherlock had made good use of the rule many times, including the present instance.<p>

Over John's head he smiled as the child whinged, yanking on his hand. "Sherlooooooock!"

He huffed an elaborate sigh for the child's benefit. "Don't you think you received enough for one Christmas, John?" he asked severely, indicating the wrapping strewn everywhere.

The child's face fell immediately, to his surprise, and John fidgeted with the hem of his jumper as he nodded reluctantly.

Honestly, the child was so utterly and irretrievably Good it was _sickening_.

"Oh, very _well_," he sighed dramatically. "Pick up those action heroes and then sit on the floor there."

John scrambled to obey, piling his plunder into the small rucksack Sherlock had got him for his Legos. Sherlock retrieved the miniature demon (receiving a snarl and a hiss for his pains in carefully removing it from the carrier) and returned to the lounge, grateful that no one was there to snap a photo of him and his tiny burden.

* * *

><p>Obviously the animal had been far from the runt of the litter, as it was rather...stocky, to put it delicately. Still, John's face lit up like a Christmas tree with two shining blue ornaments when he caught sight of the little kitten, and so who was Sherlock to criticise.<p>

He seated himself next to John, who was vibrating with excitement. Carefully, wincing at the kitten's mewl, he held the little animal out. "Be very careful, John," he instructed, unsure of how good even this child's instincts were. "Do not squeeze too hard. Remember little animals, like little people, are much more fragile than adults."

"What if I break him?" John whispered loudly, small brows clenched with worry.

Sherlock relaxed. "Unless you try to hurt him or are careless, you will not. Now." He set the ball of fluff down in the crook of John's arm. The kitten wailed a brief protest, before it settled down into the warm wool, one claw hooked in John's front. "Not too loud at first."

One small finger ran gently over the kitten's head, briefly scritching behind the tiny crinkled ears. John looked at him for approval, and he nodded. Thus encouraged, the child continued with more confidence, stroking the small oatmeal-coloured head and watching in fascination as the kitten yawned.

"He's purring!" John exclaimed, beaming.

* * *

><p>Despite Sherlock's reservations, the child took to his new pet with the same compassionate love he distributed equally to everyone.<p>

Within an hour, the kitten was chasing a bit of ribbon across the couch with an alacrity that made Sherlock cringe for the cushions. John's delighted laughter soothed his worries, however, as it had soothed so much throughout the past six months, and Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching the duo with fond amusement.

The kitten scooted out from under the table and then flopped onto its back, arms waving wildly at John's small fingers, which crept up to tickle its soft underbelly.

"You _fat_," John said, rubbing its plump stomach, and Sherlock stifled a laugh in his tea mug (one good thing about John's reversion would be a decent cuppa, as Sherlock was rubbish at making anything which required subtle finesse).

"Kittens sometimes look overweight, John, because they eat much more when they're first growing," he mentioned, grimacing at the awful drink.

"Hm." John did not sound convinced. He poked the animal's tummy with a finger, and received a growl as the kitten tried to gnaw on the appendage. "You need a diet," he informed the kitten seriously as Sherlock tried again to choke down the tea. "Imma name you _Mycroft_."

Sherlock choked and sprayed Darjeeling all over the bookshelf.


	17. Chapter 17

**Title**: Interlude (110-114/120ish)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 5x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: kidfic, general schmoopiness, ghastly amounts of fluff  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Sherlock unknowingly says goodbye to bb!John.  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October. Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:** See all the illustrations for this 'verse via the corresponding plug post in my journal, and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please. (New illustration added 05/2012) 

* * *

><p>After another hour of fierce playing, the newly-christened Mycroft (Sherlock could not <em>wait<em> to let brother dearest know this new development) settled down in his fleece-lined kitty-bed before the fireplace and promptly fell asleep, despite all John's dismayed efforts to the contrary.

"He will sleep much of each day until he is older, John," Sherlock explained patiently, when the child started to sulk. "We'll need to keep him active in the evenings so he does not run about all night long." _Because I will cheerfully dissect the little beast if it does_, he did not add aloud.

John huffed, causing an unruly curl to bounce off his forehead, but obediently left Mycroft to his dozing. The child scampered back over to the tree, whereupon he crawled underneath to retrieve the last package and then pushed it eagerly into Sherlock's hands.

"Is for you!" he said, beaming proudly. "From me!"

"Is it indeed." Sherlock inspected it carefully, smiling at Lestrade's obvious helping hand with the wrapping job.

"Uncle Greg helped," John added, leaning against his knees to watch him. "An' Mr. Anderson," he continued cheerfully, counting the people off on his fingers (Sherlock briefly considered calling a bomb squad), "an' Anthea help-ted me with the idea!"

Sherlock smiled briefly at the running narrative before finally discarding the wrapping around the small box.

* * *

><p>The box contained nothing more than a thumb drive.<p>

Once settled with John on his lap and laptop open, he found the drive's contents were evidently password-protected.

"What is the password, John?"

The child giggled, hiding behind both hands. "Not telling!" he chirped. "You hafta figure it out!"

"Ohh, being a bit tricky, are we?" Sherlock asked, smiling. He walked his fingers menacingly up the child's torso, and John squirmed, trying to avoid the tickling. "I believe I could make you tell me!"

"Nooooo!" John squeaked and then giggled, wriggling away. "Sherlock! Not playing fair!"

"And what have I told you about playing fair?"

"That it has its place but fightin' dirty is us'ally more e-eff-"

"Effective."

"'S what I said." John's snub nose upturned in a lofty sniff. "E-ffec-tive. Means it works better," he added helpfully.

"Precisely," he agreed. "Then why do you think I would be playing fair, hm?"

John half-heartedly kicked him with one socked foot. "Mean," he muttered, leaning back. Fiddling with the maroon dressing-gown's sash, the child quietly watched while Sherlock worked at the password.

But after an hour's endeavours (obviously Mycroftian encryption), Sherlock glanced down to see that John had plummeted off his sugar high and was now sound asleep against him, small mouth half-open and air-sighs passing through it as the little one breathed.

* * *

><p>He had not realised it was afternoon. Mrs. Hudson had left mid-morning for her sister's, after assuring him that the meals she'd left carefully labeled in his fridge only wanted heating up. Their leisurely breakfast had taken longer than he had anticipated. It was of no wonder that the child needed his nap after the morning's excitement.<p>

He only hoped he had performed adequately in the role of parent for a charming little boy who had been neglected in his first childhood.

Mindful of the impending change, he switched the child's pyjamas and jumper for one of John's oldest, softest t-shirts, and after covering the little one with an afghan and tucking Paddington Bear into John's relaxed grip, he left the child to his slumber and moved to tidy up the flat.

Something told him to return a few minutes later, but John slept on, calm and serene, breathing even and strong. Sherlock stood for a moment, watching the little one sleep, before bending down to tuck a corner of the blanket in more securely under John's small hand.

He thought John would wake for a moment as his hand gently stroked through the messy sandy curls, but the child only yawned and snuggled down into the blanket with a contented sigh - the perfect picture of a peacefully-sleeping little boy.

* * *

><p>He stood for a moment longer, marveling at the small miracle he'd been gifted six months before, and then silently moved to continue his clean-up.<p>

The chore was mechanical at this point, a habit he'd been forced to learn quite early in this extraordinary transition. It was the work of an hour to scour the flat for bits of wrapping and ribbon, binning it appropriately.

John's toys he stacked into neat piles, the cat paraphernalia went into the bottom kitchen cupboard, and the iPod's accessories were stored a drawer in John's desk. He tidied up the chocolate mugs, mopped the coffee table (John had missed the coaster twice), and then went upstairs to see if the child had destroyed his bedroom in one excited, sleepless night.

An army of action heroes lay under the sheets, along with a pop-up book teaching the colours of the rainbow. Two stuffed animals perched precariously on bed-posts, while an impromptu hammock made of an old towel and string swung from the other two. Randomly scattered board game pieces crunched underfoot as he swept them into the To Sort box (a punishment system devised by him; John's occasional refusal to clean his room resulted an hour with the Sort box, putting miscellaneous pieces into their proper places around the flat). John, understandably, hated the Sort box.

* * *

><p>He deposited a pair of socks into the clothing basket, and then straightened with a fond smile.<p>

Stuck to the door of the closet was a penciled drawing of Sherlock in his overcoat and a wild electric-blue scarf, holding the hand of a much smaller figure dressed in a yellow rain slicker with matching rain boots. Both were smiling ridiculously large, and Sherlock was actually a bit appalled at how _massive_ the dark hair was on his figure. Behind the two stick figures was another man holding an umbrella, flanked by a smaller figure in sunglasses. He would have to tease John later about his spy-world fascination.

He made a mental note to retrieve as much of John's artwork and such from around the flat as he could (knowing that once his flatmate changed back he would be too embarrassed to allow the handicraft to exist), and to preserve it somehow. Now that the imminent change loomed over him like a destructive thundercloud about to shatter his newfound tranquility...he found himself reluctant to release the image of a happy, affectionate child who had so effectively stolen the heart he professed not to have.

As if in eerie echo to his thoughts, he heard a ponderous crash from downstairs, and a shout that was definitely _not_ that of a startled little boy.


	18. Chapter 18

**Title**: Interlude (115-129/129)  
><strong>Universe<strong>: _A Messy Business/Never Too Late_  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word Count (this bit)<strong>: 15x221  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: enough reunion fluff to make you nauseous, be warned  
><strong>General Summary<strong>: Wee!John's first Christmas with Sherlock.  
><strong>This Part Summary:<strong> Reunion fluff, Sherlock's Christmas present, and a surprise!  
><strong>AN:** Promised holiday arc. This is AU from _A Messy Business_, since AMB and NTL are set in September-October. Just imagine for a minute that somehow John doesn't get switched back and so has a Christmas with Sherlock as a child.  
><strong>AN2:** See all the illustrations for this 'verse via the corresponding plug post in my LiveJournal (**kcscribbler**), and do take the time to stop by and tell the artists how awesome they are, please. (New illustration added 05/2012)

And so it ends, everyone. Thank you for taking this wild journey with me, and rest assured I will be continuing the Never Too Late arc (the primary arc for this 'verse before this insanely epic rabbit trail), in which John will grow up as normal. Love to you all! 3 

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was not a timid man. From childhood, he'd been oddly (according to family and well-meaning physicians) without a sense of healthy fear, and it served him well in his chosen world. Fearing the unknown was, in a word, illogical; the unknown should be embraced as a problem to be unraveled - and nothing more melodramatic than precisely that.<p>

And yet, now he found himself sinking down on John's bed, hands clenched around a child's scribbled drawing...actually _unwilling_ to go downstairs and see the end result of a transformation he'd been hoping for.

A month ago he'd been about to pull his hair out, so exhausted and exasperated was he from looking after a little boy - when he had never asked for such immense responsibility! - and now, he was actually _regretting_ the fact that he would not have to deal with said little boy ever again?

He had expected to feel some displacement over the disruption of what had become a habitual lifestyle. Possibly regret, that he had not accomplished all he'd wished to. Perhaps a little initial awkwardness when the change hit, having another adult presence around the flat instead of a five-year-old.

He had never, in all his projected hypotheses, expected to feel far closer to tears than any self-professed sociopath had a right to be.

* * *

><p>Self-preservational instincts ensured that by the time footsteps sounded outside, he was once again under control of his expressions. When the door opened he looked up, curiosity overcoming his initial reluctance.<p>

"Ah...I hope you don't mind," John said sheepishly, plucking at the shoulder of Sherlock's blue dressing-gown. "Was hanging in your room and...well." He swallowed, fidgeted awkwardly with the belt of the robe. "Thanks for that, by the way. Not leaving me in child-sized pyjamas."

"Mm. It's fine." Sherlock dismissed the matter with a wave, forcing a smile to his lips. After half a year of laughter and genuine grins at a child's enthusiastic affection, the motion felt stiff and almost painfully cold. "I take it there were no ill effects, with the transformation."

"No, no, not at all." John ran a hand awkwardly through his cropped hair, shaking his head. "Happened while I was still half-asleep, I think...not painful. Just...odd. Very odd." He fidgeted with the gown's too-long sleeves. "And...ah. I feel very tall now, actually."

A bubble of laughter escaped Sherlock's lips before he could help himself, and he saw a relaxed grin flicker into his flatmate's mirroring expression.

But he dropped his gaze a moment later, unable to keep up the pretense of cheerfulness. John's eyes narrowed as he watched Sherlock absently twiddle with a keychain-sized Paddington Bear.

* * *

><p>"Oh, sod this," John muttered suddenly, causing Sherlock's dark head to jerk up in inquiring surprise. Crossing the room in two steps, he hauled his friend and former guardian up and threw both arms around him. "Sherlock..."<p>

"I do not need a _hug_!" Sherlock huffed indignantly, trying to squirm away.

"Then humor me, because a few minutes ago I was only five years old," John replied, his voice curiously thick and muffled in Sherlock's lapel. "And I _do_."

"Oh." Well, that certainly made sense. And in that case... He brought his arms up without hesitation and squeezed gently, pleased that he had mastered the art during the last six months (under protest for the first few weeks of overly-affectionate child minding).

He realised a moment later that John was laughing, shaking slightly against him, and he stepped back in some alarm (hysterics?), hands on the shorter man's shoulders.

"No, no, Sherlock," his friend said, shaking his head in response to Sherlock's question. John patted his arm, grinning up at him. "You great idiot...you were utterly _fantastic_, do you know that?"

He blinked, knowing that he probably looked like a gawp-jawed Anderson when John's grin softened into something more gentle, but no less affectionate. "Really?" he asked, feeling an odd sort of shyness cause his ears to warm in a creeping blush.

* * *

><p>John reached up and hugged him again briefly, without any sort of hesitation - as if still under a child's instincts and lack of inhibitions.<p>

Sherlock could not truthfully say that he minded.

"Really, Sherlock," John finally said as he stepped back, self-consciously pulling the dressing-gown securely closed. "Absolutely fantastic. I am..." he shook his head, rubbing hesitantly at one temple, "...so amazed."

"Well, ah. Yes." He cleared his throat. "Right. That is...of course, you were an extraordinarily well-behaved child, after all. And Lestrade's expertise was invaluable," he added without begrudgement, for the accolade was well-deserved and only fair.

John turned a delicate shade of pink, obviously remembering one of many embarrassing situations. Sherlock smirked; this could be rather fun, actually.

"Even despite the time you decided to play The Floor Is Lava and knocked Mrs. Hudson's best lamp off my desk," he continued, adopting a thoughtful expression. John's ears flushed bright red. "And that time you glued Lestrade's gloves to the banister downstairs. Oh, and let's not forget trying to convince me over dinner out one night that I should allow you to audition for _X Factor_ - let me assure you, the performance of _Dancing Queen_ with a breadstick-microphone in the middle of Angelo's dinner rush was quite a unique treat for the patrons of that modest little bistro."

* * *

><p>The look of utter horror on John's countenance made him stop the merciless torture (for the moment), as his friend then covered his face with both hands and groaned, "Did I really?"<p>

"You don't remember?" His evil smirk turned upward another fraction. "It was quite unforgettable."

John dragged both hands slowly downward, chuckling ruefully. "It's a bit odd, really," he mused aloud, eyes far away. "I've two sets of memories...but both seem so real it's hard to separate which is which. Y'know when you have a dream, so vivid that even the next day you find yourself at odd moments thinking it really happened?"

Sherlock nodded.

"A bit like that, rather." John smiled up at him with an abandon so reminiscent of the child-version that it made Sherlock's heart ache for a set of worshipful blue eyes and a little boy's unselfishness. "A very wonderful, very _good_ dream. Really, Sherlock," he added, seeing cynicism twist the detective's features into a sad moue of disagreement. "I...God help me for speaking ill of the dead, but I never felt so - so loved, as a child," he finally said, eyes downcast in embarrassment. But the words felt less awkward than they should; obviously the frankness of childhood still steeped his consciousness, allowing sentiment that would never be tolerated in a fully-aware adult brain.

* * *

><p>Sherlock found himself very earnestly contemplating the loose threads on his slippers, as under his collar his neck began to heat in chagrined embarrassment. Things would be a bit not good around here for a few days, obviously, until John's mouth caught up with the fact that he was no longer five years old and such things were Not Said by adult males.<p>

"I...I am sorry, Sherlock," John's voice was quiet, gentle now. "I know this whole business is...has to have been dreadfully awkward for you."

"A bit, yes." He roughly cleared his throat and looked up, head cocked to the side quizzically. "Though you are hardly to blame."

"True enough," John agreed with a nod. "Still. Thank you. For not dumping me with someone else when no one would have blamed you for doing it," he clarified, eyes bright, when Sherlock made to wave off his words. "That's a bit beyond the call of duty to a friend, and...well, I am very grateful."

"Yes, well." He straightened his dressing gown, only just in time remembering to not flip the lapels of it up behind his neck. "It was the only possible solution satisfactory to all parties concerned. Besides," he added with a self-satisfied smirk, "I have much enjoyed spending Mycroft's pension in retaliation for being indefinitely deprived of my blogger."

* * *

><p>John's moan of ecstasy as he had his first cup of tea in six months could give Sherlock's courtesy-of-Irene ringtone a run for its money, a fact which he gleefully pointed out by recording his flatmate all but making love to the cuppa on said flatmate's new iPod.<p>

"Oi, that's mine," John garbled from 'round a biscuit (he had been eating steadily for an hour now, to Sherlock's fascinated horror, though Mycroft's text assured him it was a normal reaction to the body's immense physical change and discharge of energy). "Hand it over, I want to look up cat music."

Sherlock's lip curled in disdain. "If you are referring to those horrid Jingle Cats that I was forced to listen to last time I allowed you - toddler you - to browse YouTube -"

John's eyes rolled ceiling-ward. "Music to keep Mycroft from shredding the curtains while we're out, Sherlock. They actually make albums for the mental wellbeing of pets; Mozart and the like."

Sherlock, who was feeding their tubby feline companion a spoonful of chicken salad from yesterday's luncheon, sniggered at the knowledge that John continued to see nothing wrong with naming the kitten after his sibling. Mycroft-the-kitten rumbled happily, tail wiggling as he scoffed his mid-afternoon snack and then lazily flopped over so that Sherlock could scritch his belly.

* * *

><p>"Seriously, though," John said at last, after he'd noticed Sherlock wandering about the flat, surreptitiously hiding reminders of John's childhood when he thought the other man wasn't looking. "Are you all right?"<p>

"Of course," Sherlock replied breezily, flapping past him into the kitchen in a swirl of dressing-gown. "Fine. Perfectly fine."

John watched from the doorway, silent, as Sherlock pulled a paper off the refrigerator door (he vaguely remembered painting something with dinosaurs, though the details were fuzzy with child-memory) and stared at it, wide-eyed, for at least a full minute. Sighing fondly, he entered the kitchen. Sherlock started and shoved the paper into his pocket with so little finesse John was actually starting to get a bit worried.

"Sherlock."

"Mmh. We need milk again, by the way."

"Sherlock," he tried again.

"And eggs, you would not believe how many eggs you ate as a child."

"Sherlock!"

The man jumped at his raised voice, and turned, looking peeved. "What?"

John shook his head. "Did you manage to crack the password for your Christmas present?"

"I did not have a chance to, why?" he returned sulkily.

John marched into the lounge and retrieved the laptop, returning to plunk it onto the table. "Lestrade let my five-year-old self set the password," he said dryly, as he pecked a brief p-a-s-s-w-o-r-d into the box.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's look of annoyed incredulity made him laugh. "I'm sorry that my childhood brain couldn't come up with something more complicated," he soothed, turning the screen so that it faced his friend. He laid a hand briefly on the detective's shoulder. "There you are. And Happy Christmas, Sherlock," he added, when the man glanced up, obviously impatient to see what his gift contained.<p>

He left the kitchen with another mug of tea, allowing his friend the time to explore the thumb-drive's contents.

Sherlock clicked rapidly through the preliminary file system, and soon stopped short, staring at the menus in front of him. It was unbelievable...utterly, completely, and beautifully unreal.

And yet there they were.

Meticulously organized, every single scrap of media he could recall (and a good many he had no idea even existed) having to do with the little ray of sunshine that had so brightened his life for the last half-year. Folders upon folders of pictures, scanned images of artwork John had done, phone videos of the two of them sneaked by people in their little circle, even scraps of recollected memories from people they knew - all collated and organized so that he could find whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.

Watching from the doorway, John smiled as Sherlock's eyes lit up so brightly it was almost blinding.

* * *

><p>Dimmock, it was obvious, had done the videos, as there was a small .txt in the first folder that told him all footage had been removed from any public forum including the Yard's message boards; other than whatever Lestrade and Sally might have saved on their phones, Sherlock held the only copy of that so incriminating video footage. He appreciated the gesture, and more so the footage. Clicking on one at random, he broke into a small laugh as John's cherubic little face came into view - at about three years old, he guessed, and judging from the curious and clueless expression the child had been given Lestrade's mobile to keep him busy one evening while they discussed crime scene details.<p>

Anderson had made him a digital calendar (complete with monthly desktop wallpapers) of the two of them, he found in another folder, and despite the snarky comments from his nemesis on each page he secretly was quite pleased about it. Lestrade had organized the photos, and he could see there were several hours' worth of browsing ahead for him. Sally had done the same by scanning what she could of John's artistic handiwork, and Anthea had left him a short note to indicate she had done the same from Mycroft's secret stash, and that Wilkins had deleted all possible blackmail.

* * *

><p>Throughout the folders, organized by month and then file type, were short notes and little montages from various of their small circle of acquaintances; anecdotes of their tiny companion, or amusing things little John had said with all the innocence of childhood. Sherlock was, frankly, astounded by the amount of work that had gone into the collection by more than one person, and shook his head as he scrolled through a picture slideshow that, according to the notes attached, John had done all by himself with Anthea's help, one night during a case when Mycroft had been the designated babysitter. He smiled, grinned, and laughed by turns, as the pictures changed from John making a variety of funny faces into the camera, to the two of them engaged in various activities like making paper airplanes out of memos on Anderson's desk, or a two-year-old John sitting contentedly on Sherlock's shoulders, yawning sleepily while Sherlock gestured to some crime scene detail with Lestrade looking on.<p>

He went back to the video folder, drawn by the strange ache in his chest, the desire to see the child again, and pulled up a video that he'd had no idea Lestrade had taken. Obviously filmed in haste, and through the man's office glass, there was no sound other than Sally's covert awww-ing in the background.

* * *

><p>Three-year-old John was slouched against the corridor wall, scowling at the floor as only a stroppy toddler can. Long legs entered the camera's field of vision, and a moment later Sherlock crouched down in front of the little one, obviously trying to placate the child.<p>

John shook his head at whatever was said, rubbing his eyes with both hands and pouting. Video-Sherlock crouched a bit lower and started to reach out, long fingers creeping up John's arms. Despite the lack of sound, it was obvious from gestures that he was beginning the 'round-and-'round-the-garden-like-a-teddy-bear tickling rhyme. Sherlock smiled as he watched video-John try desperately to remain scowling, and fail utterly, finally breaking into a fit of giggles and throwing his small arms around his guardian's neck in a tight hug. Video-Sherlock stood, child in his arms, and turned with such an unguardedly tender smile it was no wonder the video snapped off just as his eyes met Lestrade's camera-phone; no doubt the DI was aware he would not want such a thing on film.

Indeed, he was rather embarrassed just watching, but at the same time he was grateful to have had such an opportunity as he had for the last six months. John had deserved to have a happy childhood, although Sherlock believed he had actually been said childhood's _real_ beneficiary.

* * *

><p>Two photo albums later, he discovered a photograph he'd no idea had been taken - he suspected Mycroft's surveillance cameras - but which he certainly deserved a place in his Mind Palace.<p>

It had been a rainy evening when John was only about three, if he recalled correctly. They had been trapped indoors all day, and John had been naughty early in the afternoon (a tantrum about having to pick up his toys, which had resulted in Sherlock ignoring John for an hour while he chose to sniffle in the corner instead of obeying and ending his ostracization), but by evening all had been forgiven and forgotten, and they had spent the night eating Chinese for dinner and watching some camp telly (not much different from the adult version, now that he thought about it).

John had grown bored, and Sherlock had not been paying attention regardless; and so Sherlock had gotten out his laptop, meaning to send Harry Watson an email (she'd been told that they were out of the country for a few months on a covert mission, and only her lack of genuine interest in John's whereabouts had saved them thus far from telling her the unbelievable truth), when the toddler had crawled unceremoniously into his lap and began watching him type, utterly fascinated by the cursor's blinking.

* * *

><p>The camera had caught a perfect image of them, both their faces lit blueish from the laptop screen, John's wide eyes fastened on the light and Sherlock smiling slightly over the child's curly head as he typed, half-leaning over the small body in his arms. Sherlock absently noted the position of the photo, so he could locate the hidden camera.<p>

He had no idea he'd been sitting at the kitchen table, watching videos and scrolling through anecdotes and pictures, until John's hand on his shoulder startled him from his pensive trance.

"You've been sitting here for three hours, Sherlock," his flatmate said quietly, sliding into the chair beside him. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd fallen asleep. Sure you're all right?"

"Yes, quite," he murmured, closing the lid of the laptop to hide what he'd been staring at so horribly sentimentally; no reason why he should try to see it all in one day, anyhow. "More so than earlier," he added honestly, which he was pleased to see brought a look of gratification to John's face.

"Good, then?"

"_Very_ good." And he meant it, he noted with some surprise. "Thank you, John. I am...indebted to all who had a hand in this."

John smiled, and bumped their shoulders companionably. "The debt's all mine, by a very long shot, I believe."

* * *

><p>As the days went on, the awkwardness faded. Life returned to normal. Lestrade came by with cases, Anderson went back to taunting him. Eventually even the tiny indicators that John had even existed as a five-year-old faded.<p>

Sherlock kept his thumb drive close, guarding it more jealously than his own personal history, wishing occasionally for just one more chance to complete the things he had wanted (he still had a list, and found himself adding to it), to make John's second childhood happy.

Weeks passed, until Sherlock's birthday, mid-January. John left mid-morning on a 'mysterious birthday errand,' promising to return for Sherlock's birthday dinner. Mid-experiment, Sherlock had dismissed him without a look.

Now, as the doorbell rang below, he noticed John had not yet returned. Odd.

Odder still, it was _Mycroft_ at the door.

"Do not blame me, brother," was the man's first, bizarre statement, delivered with an air of the deepest longsuffering. "He was quite insistent upon this as your birthday gift, and you know how incapable either of us is of refusing him. You have approximately forty-eight hours. And do not expect me to acquiesce to this as a regular episode; do you hear me, young man?"

Sherlock blinked, mystified, until Mycroft shifted to reveal a familiar, impishly grinning small figure in a yellow slicker and tiny rubber boots.

* * *

><p><strong>Finis.<strong>  
>Or is it? ;)<p> 


End file.
